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J^onore  tic  Balzac 

PARISIAN   LIFE 

VOLUME  VI 


LIMITED    TO   ONE    THOUSAND    COMPLETE   COPIES 


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<>j^yUj/-Au,i  iSyff^-f  "^.J^  9'-  Jlin. 


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M.  AND  MADAME  JULES  AND  IDA 


'"My  name  is  Ida,  Monsieur.  And  if  that  is 
Madame  Jules  to  ivliom  I  Jiave  the  advantage  of 
speaking.  Eve  come  to  tell  her  all  I  have  in  my 
heart  against  her.  It  is  very  ^vrong  when  one  is 
set  lip  and  zuhen  one  is  in  her  fiirnitnre,  as  yon  arc 
here,  to  wish  to  take  away  from  a  poor  girl  a  man 
with  zvJiom  I  am  as  good  as  married,  morally,  and 
zvho  talks  of  repairing  his  ivrongs  by  marrying  me 
before  the  Municipality. 


THE  NOVELS 


OF 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC 


NOW   FOR   THE    FIRST   TIME 
COMPLETELY    TRANSLATED    INTO    ENGLISH 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTEEN: 

FERRAGUS    CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS 
LA   DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 


BY  WILLIAM  WALTON 


WITH    FIVE   ETCHINGS    BY   CLAUDE   FAIVRE  AND   AUGUSTIN 

MONGIN,    AFTER    PAINTINGS    BY    LOUIS- 

EDOUARD    FOURNIER 


IN    ONE    VOLUME 


<  3  J         >     ^ 


a  »  > 

PRINTED  ONLY  FOR  SUBSCRIBERS  BY 

GEORGE   BARRIE   &   SON,   PHILADELPHIA 


COPYRIGHTED,   1 896,  BY  G.   B.   *  SON 


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HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTEEN 


189961 


PREFACE 

There  were  brought  together  under  the  Empire 
and  in  Paris,  thirteen  men  all  equally  possessed 
by  the  same  sentiment,  all  of  them  endowed  with 
sufficient  force  to  remain  constant  to  one  idea,  suffi- 
ciently honorable  not  to  betray  one  another,  even 
when  their  individual  interests  conflicted,  suffi- 
ciently politic  to  conceal  the  sacred  ties  which 
united  them,  sufficiently  strong  to  maintain  them- 
selves above  all  law,  courageous  enough  to  under- 
take anything,  and  fortunate  enough  to  have  almost 
always  succeeded  in  their  designs;  having  encoun- 
tered the  greatest  dangers,  but  never  speaking  of 
their  defeats;  inaccessible  to  fear,  and  having  trem- 
bled neither  before  the  prince,  the  headsman,  nor 
innocence;  accepting  each  other  for  such  as  they 
were,  without  taking  into  account  social  prejudices; 
criminals  undoubtedly,  but  certainly  remarkable  for 
some  of  those  qualities  which  mark  great  men,  and 
recruiting  their  number  only  from  men  of  distinc- 
tion. And,  finally,  that  nothing  might  be  lacking 
to  the  sombre  and  mysterious  poetry  of  this  history 
these  thirteen  men  have  remained  unknown,  though 
all  of  them  have  realized  the  strangest  chimer- 
ical ideas  which  are  suggested  to  the  imagina- 
tion by  that  fantastic  power  wrongly  attributed  to 

(3) 


4  PREFACE 

the  Manfreds,  the  Fausts,  the  Melmoths;  and  all  of 
them  are  to-day  crushed,  or  at  least  dispersed. 
They  have  quietly  returned  to  the  yoke  of  the  civil 
law,  as  Morgan,  the  Achilles  of  pirates,  transformed 
himself  from  a  destroyer  to  a  peaceful  colonist,  dis- 
posing without  remorse  by  the  light  of  his  own  fire- 
side, of  the  millions  gathered  in  blood  by  the  red 
glare  of  incendiarism. 

Since  the  death  of  Napoleon,  an  accident  con- 
cerning which  the  author  should  still  preserve 
silence,  has  dissolved  the  bonds  of  this  life,  as 
secret  and  curious,  as  the  darkest  of  the  romances 
of  Mrs.  Radcliffe.  The  permission,  sufficiently 
remarkable  in  itself,  to  relate,  in  his  own  manner, 
some  of  the  adventures  of  these  men,  always  with 
respect  for  certain  proprieties,  has  only  recently 
been  given  him  by  one  of  these  anonymous  heroes 
to  whom  all  branches  of  society  were  secretly  sub- 
ject, and  in  whom  the  author  believes  himself  to 
have  discovered  a  vague  desire  for  celebrity. 

This  man,  in  appearance  still  young,  with  light 
hair  and  blue  eyes,  whose  voice,  soft  and  clear, 
seemed  to  reveal  a  feminine  soul,  was  pale  of  com- 
plexion and  mysterious  in  his  manners;  he  con- 
versed affably,  pretended  to  be  only  forty  years  of 
age,  and  might  have  been  a  member  of  the  highest 
class  of  society.  The  name  which  he  had  assumed 
appeared  to  be  a  fictitious  one;  in  the  gay  world 
his  person  was  unknown.    Who  is  he  ?  no  one  knows. 

Perhaps,  in  confiding  to  the  author  the  extra- 
ordinary things   which   he   revealed   to   him,    the 


PREFACE  5 

unknown  wished  to  see  them  reproduced  in  some 
manner  and  to  enjoy  the  emotions  which  they 
would  be  certain  to  awaken  in  the  bosoms  of  the 
populace;  some  feeling  analogous  to  that  experi- 
enced by  Macpherson  when  the  name  of  Ossian, 
his  creation,  was  inscribed  in  all  languages.  And 
it  was,  certainly,  for  the  Scottish  lawyer  one  of  the 
keenest  sensations,  or  at  least  one  of  the  rarest, 
that  man  can  give  himself.  May  it  not  be  said  to 
be  the  incognito  of  genius?  To  write  the  Itineraire 
de  Paris  a  Jerusalem,  is  to  take  one's  part  in  the 
human  glory  of  a  century;  but  to  endow  one's 
country  with  a  Homer,  is  it  not  to  usurp  the  privi- 
leges of  God  ? 

The  author  is  too  well  acquainted  with  the  laws 
of  narration  to  remain  in  ignorance  of  the  engage- 
ments which  this  short  preface  causes  him  to 
assume;  but  he  also  knows  sufficiently  well  the 
story  of  the  Thirteen  to  be  certain  of  never  falling 
below  the  interest  which  this  programme  would 
seem  to  promise.  Certain  dramas  blood-curdling, 
certain  comedies  full  of  terrors,  certain  romances 
through  which  roll  human  heads  secretly  struck  off, 
have  been  confided  to  him.  If  any  reader  has 
not  been  satiated  with  the  horrors  coolly  served 
up  to  the  public  recently,  he  could,  if  but  the  slightest 
desire  to  hear  them  were  manifested,  reveal  to 
him  quiet  atrocities,  marvelous  family  tragedies. 
But  he  has  selected  in  preference  the  mildest 
adventures,  those  in  which  pure  scenes  succeed 
the   storms   of  the  passions,   in  which  woman    is 


6  PREFACE 

radiant  with  virtue  and  beauty.  For  the  honor  of 
the  Thirteen,  such  scenes  may  be  met  with  in  their 
history,  which  perhaps  some  day  may  be  judged 
worthy  of  being  published  as  a  pendant  to  that  of 
the  buccaneers,  that  race  apart,  so  curiously  ener- 
getic, so  attractive  despite  its  crimes. 

An  author  should  disdain  to  convert  his  recital, 
when  that  recital  is  truthful,  into  a  species  of  jack- 
in-the-box,  and  to  lead  his  reader,  after  the  manner 
of  some  romancers,  from  one  subterranean  crypt  to 
another  through  four  volumes  in  order  to  show  him 
a  withered  corpse  and  to  say  to  him,  by  way  of  con- 
clusion, that  he  has  been  keeping  him  in  constant 
terror  of  a  secret  door  in  the  tapestry  or  of  a  dead 
man  left   inadvertently  under  the  floor.     Notwith- 
standing his  aversion  to  prefaces  the  author  has  felt 
obliged  to  place  these  sentences  at  the  beginning  of 
this  fragment.     Ferragus  is  a  preliminary  episode 
which    is   united   by    invisible   bonds  to  the  his- 
tory   of    the    Thirteen,    whose    power,    naturally 
acquired,  alone  can  explain  certain  energies,  appar- 
ently supernatural.     Although  it   be   permitted  to 
story-tellers  to  have  a  kind  of  literary  coquetry,  on 
becoming   historians,    they    should    renounce    the 
benefits  which  they  might  derive  from  strangeness 
of  titles,  which    in   our  day  procure  certain  slight 
successes.     Therefore  the  author  will  explain  here 
briefly  the  reasons  which  have  obliged  him  to  ac- 
cept certain  titles  for  his  books  which  at  first  sight 
may  not  seem  quite  natural. 

Ferragus  is,   according  to  an  ancient  custom,  a 


PREFACE  7 

name  taken  by  a  chief  of   Devorants.     The  day  of 
their  election,   these  chiefs   adopt  for  themselves 
those  of  the  names  of  the  devorantesque  dynasties 
which  please  them,  just  as,  of  the  pontifical  dynas- 
ties,   the   Popes    do,    at  their    installation.     Thus 
the  Devorants  have  Trempe-la-Soupe   IX.,  Ferragus 
XXII.,     Tutanus    XIII.,    Masche-Fer    IK,    in    the 
same    manner    as  the   Church   has    its    Clement 
XIV.,  Gregory  IX.,  Julius  II.,   Alexander  VI.,  etc. 
Meanwhile,  who  are  the  Devorants?    Devorants  is  the 
name  of  one  of  the  tribes  of  "companions"  that  issued 
formerly  from  the  great  mystical  organization  formed 
among  the  workmen  of  Christendom  to  rebuild  the 
Temple   of    Jerusalem.       The  compagnonnage   still 
exists  in  France  among  the  people.     Its  traditions, 
powerful  for  the  unthinking  and  for  those  who  are 
not  sufficiently-well  educated  to  break  these  oaths, 
might  serve    for    formidable    enterprises    if  some 
rough-hewn  genius  were  to  seize  the  direction  of 
these  various  societies.     In  fact,  there,  there  is  no 
lack  of  blind  instruments;  there,  from  one  town  to 
another,  has  existed,  for  the  compagnons,  from  time 
immemorial   an   ohade,   a   species  of   halting-place 
kept  by  a  mother,  an  old  woman,  half  gipsy,  having 
nothing  to   lose,    knowing   all   that   passes  in  the 
country,  and  devoted — either  from  fear  or  from  long 
custom — to  the  tribe  which  she  lodges  and  feeds  in 
detail.      Finally,    these   people   constantly   chang- 
ing, yet  submitting  to   immovable   customs,   may 
have  eyes  in  every  locality,  execute  everywhere  a 
will,    without  a  judgment  thereon,  for  the   oldest 


8  PREFACE 

companion  is  still  in  an  age  when  one  believes  in 
something.     In  addition,  the  entire  body  professes 
doctrines  sufficiently  true,  sufficiently  mysterious, 
to  electrify  patriotically  all  the  adepts,  if  they  but 
receive  the  slightest  development    Then  the  attach- 
ment of  the  companions  to  their  laws  is  so  passionate 
that  the  various  tribes  wage  bloody  combat  among 
themselves  in  order  to  decide  some  question  of  prin- 
ciple.    Fortunately  for  the   existing  public  order, 
when   a   Devorant  becomes   ambitious,    he   builds 
houses,  makes  a  fortune,  and  leaves  the  compag- 
nonnage.     There  would  be  many  curious  details  to 
give  concerning  the  "Companions  of  Duty" — com- 
pagnons  du  Devoir — the  rivals  of  the  Devorants,  and 
all  the  different  sects  of  workmen,  their  customs 
and  their  fraternity,  the  relations  which  exist  be- 
tween them  and  the  Freemasons;  but  these  details 
would  be  out  of  place  here.     Only,  the  author  will 
add  that,  under  the  ancient  monarchy,  it  was  not  un- 
known to  find  a  Trempe-la-Soupe    in   the   king's 
service,  having  secured  a  place  for  a  hundred  and 
one  years  in  the  galleys ;  but  from  there  still  direct- 
ing his  tribe,  still   consulted  religiously  by  them, 
and    if    he    quitted    the    chain-gang,    certain    of 
finding  aid,  comfort  and   respect  everywhere.     To 
see  its  chief  at  the  galleys  is,  for  a  faithful  tribe, 
only  one  of  those  misfortunes  for  which  Providence 
is  responsible,  but  which   in   no  way   relieves  the 
Devorants  from   the    duty   of  obeying  the   power 
created  by  them,  above  them.     It  is  the  temporary 
exile  of  their  legitimate  king,  always  a  king  for 


PREFACE  9 

them.  Here  may  be  seen,  then,  the  romantic  pres- 
tige attached  to  the  name  of  Ferragus  and  to  that  of 
Devorants  completely  dissipated. 

As  to  the  Thirteen,  the  author  feels  himself  suffi- 
ciently strongly  supported  by  the  details  of  this 
history,  almost  romantic,  to  renounce  again  one  of 
the  finest  privileges  of  the  novelist  of  which  there 
can  be  an  example — and  which,  on  the  Ch^telet  of 
literature,  would  be  awarded  a  high  prize — and  to 
impose  on  the  public  as  many  volumes  as  have 
been  given  them  by  LA  CONTEMPORAINE.  The 
Thirteen  were  all  of  them  men  of  the  same  quality  as 
was  Trelawny,  the  friend  of  Lord  Byron  and,  as  it 
is  said,  the  original  of  the  Corsair;  all  of  them 
fatalists,  men  of  heart  and  poetical,  but  wearied  of 
the  monotonous  life  they  led,  strongly  drawn  to- 
wards Asiatic  enjoyments  by  those  forces  which 
awoke  in  them  all  the  more  furiously,  having 
been  so  long  suppressed.  One  day,  one  of  them, 
after  having  re-read  Venice  Preserved,  after  hav- 
ing admired  the  sublime  union  of  Pierre  and  Jaffier, 
fell  into  contemplation  of  the  peculiar  virtues  of 
those  who  find  themselves  thrown  outside  the  social 
order,  on  the  probity  of  the  bagnios,  on  the  fidelity 
of  thieves  to  each  other,  on  the  privileges  of  exor- 
bitant power  which  these  men  know  how  to  con- 
quer by  concentrating  all  ideas  in  a  single  will.  It 
appeared  to  him  that  man  was  greater  than  men. 
He  thought  that  society  in  its  entirety  might  belong 
to  those  distinguished  ones  who,  to  their  natural 
abilities,  to  their  acquired  enlightenment,  to  their 


10  PREFACE 

fortune,  would  join  a  fanaticism  furious  enough  to 
cast  into  a  single  jet  all  these  different  forces. 
Thus  equipped,  immense  in  action  and  in  intens- 
ity, their  occult  power,  against  which  the  social 
order  would  be  defenceless,  might  overthrow  in  it 
all  obstacles,  overwhelm  all  wills,  and  give  to  each 
one  of  them  the  diabolical  power  of  all.  This 
world  isolated  in  the  midst  of  the  world,  hostile  to 
the  world,  admitting  none  of  the  ideas  of  the  world, 
recognizing  none  of  its  laws,  submitting  only  to 
the  conscience  of  its  own  necessity,  obedient  to 
devotion  only,  acting  altogether  for  one  of  the  asso- 
ciates when  one  of  them  claimed  the  assistance  of 
all;  this  life  of  buccaneers  in  kid  gloves  and  in  car- 
riages; this  intimate  union  of  superiors,  cold  and 
mocking,  smiling  and  cursing  in  the  midst  of  a  false 
and  mean  society,  the  certainty  of  being  able  to 
make  everything  bend  under  a  caprice,  of  contriving 
a  vengeance  skilfully,  of  living  in  thirteen  hearts; 
then  the  continual  satisfaction  of  having  a  secret  of 
hatred  in  the  face  of  men,  of  being  always  armed 
against  them,  and  of  being  able  to  retire  into  one's 
self  with  one  idea  more  than  even  the  most  re- 
markable men  could  have; — this  religion  of  pleas- 
ure and  of  egoism  fanaticized  thirteen  men,  who 
reconstituted  the  Society  of  Jesus  for  the  profit 
of  the  Devil.  It  was  horrible  and  sublime.  And 
in  fact  the  compact  was  made;  and  in  fact  en- 
dured, precisely  because  it  appeared  impossible. 
There  were  then,  in  Paris,  thirteen  brothers,  who 
belonged  to  each  other  and  who  did  not  recognize 


PREFACE  II 

each  other  in  the  world;  but  who  came  together  in 
the  evening,  like  conspirators,  hiding  none  of  their 
thoughts  from  each  other,  using  alternately  a  power 
like  that  of  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain;  having 
a  foothold  in  all  the  salons,  their  hands  in  all  the 
strong-boxes,  elbow-room  in  all  the  streets,  their 
heads  on  any  pillow,  and,  without  scruple,  making 
everything  serve  their  fantastic  will.  No  chief 
commanded  them,  no  one  could  arrogate  to  himself 
the  supreme  power;  only,  the  most  vivid  passion, 
the  most  exacting  circumstances,  assumed  the  initia- 
tive. They  were  thirteen  unknown  kings,  but 
really  kings,  and  more  than  kings,  judges  and 
executioners  who,  having  made  for  themselves 
wings  with  which  to  traverse  society  from  the  top 
to  the  bottom,  disdained  to  be  something  in  it 
because  they  could  be  all.  If  the  author  should 
learn  the  causes  of  their  abdication,  he  will  relate 
them. 

At  present,  he  is  permitted  to  commence  the 
recital  of  the  three  episodes  which,  in  this  history, 
have  most  particularly  attracted  him  by  the  Parisian 
flavor  of  the  details  and  by  the  extravagance  of  the 
contrasts. 

Paris,  1 83 1. 


FERRAGUS,  CHIEF  OF  THE 
DEVORANTS 


(13) 


TO  HECTOR  BERLIOZ 


(15) 


FERRAGUS 

CHIEF  OF  THE  D^VORANTS 

* 

There  are  in  Paris  certain  streets  as  dishonored 
as  can  be  any  man  convicted  of  infamy;  then  there 
are  noble  streets,  also  streets  that  are  simply  hon- 
est, also  young  streets  concerning  whose  morality 
the  public  has  not  yet  formed  any  opinion;  then 
there  are  murderous  streets,  streets  older  than  the 
oldest  possible  dowagers,  estimable  streets,  streets 
that  are  always  clean,  streets  that  are  always  dirty, 
workingmen's  streets,  students'  streets  and  mercan- 
tile ones.  In  short,  the  streets  of  Paris  have  human 
qualities,  and  impress  us  by  their  physiognomy 
with  certain  ideas  against  which  we  are  defence- 
less. There  are  streets  of  bad  company  in  which 
you  would  not  wish  to  dwell,  and  there  are  others 
in  which  you  would  willingly  take  up  your  resi- 
dence. Some  streets,  like  that  of  Montmartre,  have 
a  fme  head  and  end  in  a  fish's  tail.  The  Rue 
de  la  Paix  is  a  wide  street,  a  grand  street;  but  it 
reveals  none  of  those  gracefully  noble  suggestions 
which  surprise  an  impressionable  soul  in  the  midst 
of  the  Rue  Royale,  and  it  certainly  lacks  the  majesty 
which  reigns  in  the  Place  Vendome.     If  you  walk 

2  (17) 


l8  FERRAGUS 

about   in   the   streets   of  the  He   Saint-Louis   you 
will  require  no  other   cause   for   the  nervous  sad- 
ness which   oppresses  you   than  the   solitude,  the 
gloomy  air  of  the  houses  and  of  the  great  deserted 
houses.     This  island,  the  corpse  of  the  Farmers- 
General,   is  like  the  Venice  of  Paris.     The  Place 
de  la  Bourse  is  chattering,  active,  prostituted;  it  is 
only   handsome   by  moonlight,   at  two  o'clock   in 
the   morning;   in   the   daylight   it   is   an  abridged 
presentation  of  Paris;  at  night,  it  is  like  a  dream 
of  Greece.     The  Rue  Traversiere-Saint-Honore  is 
it  not  an  infamous  street?     There  are  in  it  wicked 
little  houses  with  two  window-casements,  in  which, 
from  story  to  story,  may  be  found  vices,  crimes  and 
misery.      The   narrow   streets  facing   north,    into 
which  the  sunlight  only  comes  three  or  four  times 
in  the  course  of  the  year,  are  streets  of  assassina- 
tion   which    kill    with    impunity;    to-day,  Justice 
does  not  interfere  with  them ;  but  formerly  the  par- 
liament would  perhaps  have  summoned  the  lieuten- 
ant  of   police  to   reprimand   him    accordingly  and 
would  at    least    have  issued  a  decree  against  the 
street,  as  one  was  directed  formerly  against  the  per- 
niqiies  of  the  Chapter  of  Beauvais.     Meanwhile, 
Monsieur    Benoiston   de   Chateauneuf  has  demon- 
strated that  the  mortality  of  these  streets  is  double 
that  of  others.     To  sum  up  all  these  ideas  in  one 
example,  the  Rue  Fromenteau,  is  it  not  at  once  mur- 
derous and  profligate?     These  observations,  incom- 
prehensible  outside   of    Paris,    will    be    doubtless 
appreciated  by  those  men  of   study  and   thought^ 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  TQ 

of  poetry  and  pleasure,  who  know  how  to  gather, 
whilst  idling  in  Paris,  all  those  enjoyments  which 
float  continually  within  her  walls;  by  those  for 
whom  Paris  is  the  most  delicious  of  monsters; — 
there,  a  pretty  woman;  farther  off,  old  and  poor; 
here,  brand-new,  like  the  coinage  of  a  new  reign; 
in  that  corner,  elegant  as  a  woman  of  fashion.  A 
monster  so  complete,  moreover!  His  garrets,  a 
species  of  head,  crowded  with  science  and  with 
genius;  his  lower  stories,  comfortable  stomachs; 
his  shops,  veritable  feet, — from  them  issue  all  the 
comers  and  goers,  all  the  busy  people.  And  what 
a  ceaselessly  active  life  is  that  of  the  monster! 
Scarcely  has  the  last  rattling  of  the  last  carriages 
from  the  ball  ceased  in  his  heart  when  already  his 
arms  are  moving  at  the  barriers,  and  he  shakes 
himself  slowly.  All  the  doors  open,  turning  on 
their  hinges,  like  the  members  of  a  great  lobster, 
invisibly  set  in  motion  by  thirty  thousand  men  or 
women,  of  which  each  one  lives  in  a  space  of  six 
feet  square,  possesses  there  a  kitchen,  a  workshop, 
a  bed,  children,  a  garden,  does  not  see  very 
clearly,  and  should  see  all.  Imperceptibly  the  limbs 
begin  to  creak,  the  movement  spreads,  the  street 
speaks.  By  noon  everything  is  alive,  the  chim- 
neys smoke,  the  monster  is  eating;  then  he  roars, 
then  his  thousand  claws  are  in  motion.  Beautiful 
spectacle !  But,  Oh !  Paris,  he  who  has  not  admired 
thy  sombre  passages,  thy  gleams  of  light,  thy 
gloomy  and  silent  culs-de-sac;  he  who  has  not 
heard  thy   murmurs,    between   midnight   and   two 


20  FERRAGUS 

o'clock  in  the  morning,  still  knows  nothing  of  thy 
true  poetry  nor  of  thy  great  and  curious  contrasts. 
There  is  a  small  number  of  amateurs,  people  who 
never  walk  heedlessly,  who  taste  their  Paris,  who 
possess  so  completely  her  physiognomy  that  they 
can  perceive  on  it  a  wart,  a  mole,  a  pimple.  For 
others,  Paris  is  always  this  marvellous  monster,  an 
astonishing  assemblage  of  movements,  of  machines 
and  thoughts,  the  city  with  a  hundred  thousand 
romances,  the  head  of  the  world.  But  to  the  first, 
Paris  is  sorrowful  or  gay,  ugly  or  handsome,  living 
or  dead;  to  them,  Paris  is  a  creature;  each  man, 
each  fraction  of  a  house,  is  a  lobe  of  the  cellular 
tissue  of  this  great  wanton,  of  whom  they  know 
perfectly  the  head,  the  heart,  and  the  fantastic 
manners.  Thus  these  are  the  lovers  of  Paris: 
they  elevate  their  noses  at  such  a  corner  of  the 
street  sure  of  finding  there  the  face  of  a  clock; 
they  say  to  a  friend  whose  snuff-box  is  empty, 
^'Take  such  a  passage,  you  will  find  in  it  a  tobacco 
shop,  at  the  left,  near  to  a  pastry-cook  who  has  a 
pretty  wife."  To  ramble  through  Paris  is,  for 
these  poets,  a  costly  luxury.  How  to  avoid  spend- 
ing precious  minutes  before  all  the  dramas,  the 
disasters,  the  figures,  the  picturesque  accidents, 
which  continually  assail  you  in  the  midst  of  this 
moving  queen  of  cities,  clothed  with  displayed  posters 
and  who,  nevertheless,  has  not  one  clean  corner, 
so  complaisant  is  she  to  the  vices  of  the  French 
nation !  To  whom  has  it  not  happened  to  set  out  in 
the  morning  from  his  lodging  to  go  to  the  extremity 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  21 

of  Paris,  and  to  find  himself  at  dinner  time  still  un- 
able to  leave  the  centre  of  the  city  ?  These,  then, 
will  know  how  to  excuse  this  wandering  introduc- 
tion which,  however,  may  be  summed  up  in  an 
observation  eminently  useful  and  novel— as  much 
so  as  any  observation  can  be  new  in  Paris,  where 
there  is  nothing  new,  not  even  the  statue  set  up 
yesterday  on  which  a  street-boy  has  already 
scrawled  his  name.  Yes,  then,  there  are  streets, 
or  ends  of  streets,  there  are  certain  houses,  un- 
known for  the  greater  part  to  people  of  social  dis- 
tinction, in  which  a  woman  belonging  to  society 
could  not  enter  without  giving  rise  to  the  cruelest 
suspicions  concerning  herself.  If  this  woman  be 
rich,  if  she  have  a  carriage,  if  she  go  on  foot,  or 
disguised,  into  some  of  these  defiles  of  the  Parisian 
country,  she  compromises  her  reputation  as  a  vir- 
tuous woman.  But  if  by  chance  she  should  come 
there  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  the  opinion 
that  an  observer  would  permit  himself  to  form 
might  have  the  most  serious  consequences.  Finally, 
if  this  woman  be  young  and  pretty,  if  she  enter 
some  house  in  one  of  these  streets;  if  this  house 
have  a  long  and  dark  passage-way,  damp  and  ill- 
smelling;  if  at  the  bottom  of  this  passage-way  may 
be  seen  trembling  the  pale  light  of  a  lamp,  and  if 
under  this  light  may  be  perceived  a  horrible  visage 
of  an  old  woman  with  long  and  lean  fingers, — 
then  in  truth,  let  us  say  it,  in  the  interests  of  all 
young  and  pretty  women,  such  woman  is  lost.  She 
is  at  the  mercy  of  the  first  man  of  her  acquaintance 


22  FERRAGUS 

whom  she  may  encounter  in  these  Parisian  mo- 
rasses. But  there  are  many  streets  in  Paris  in 
which  this  meeting  might  become  the  most  fright- 
fully terrible  drama,  a  drama  full  of  blood  and  of 
love,  a  drama  of  the  modern  school.  Unfortunately, 
this  conviction,  this  dramatic  possibility,  will  be, 
like  the  modern  drama,  comprehended  but  by  few; 
and  it  is  a  great  pity  to  have  to  relate  a  story  to  a 
public  which  does  not  appreciate  all  its  local  merit 
But  who  may  flatter  himself  that  he  is  ever  un- 
derstood? We  shall  all  die  unrecognized.  It  is  the 
plaint  of  women  and  authors. 

At  half-past  eight  o'clock  one  evening,  in  Rue 
Pagevin,  at  the  period  when  Rue  Pagevin  had 
not  one  wall  that  did  not  echo  an  infamous  word, 
and  in  the  direction  of  Rue  Soly,  the  narrowest 
and  the  most  impassable  of  all  the  streets  of  Paris, 
not  excepting  the  most  frequented  corner  of  the 
most  deserted  street;  in  the  early  part  of  the  month 
of  February,  this  adventure  came  to  pass  about 
thirteen  years  ago. — A  young  man,  by  one  of  those 
chances  which  do  not  present  themselves  twice  in 
a  lifetime,  was  turning  the  corner  of  Rue  Pa- 
gevin on  foot  to  enter  Rue  des  Vieux-Augustins, 
on  the  right,  precisely  where  Rue  Soly  is. 
There,  this  young  man,  who  lived  in  Rue  de 
Bourbon,  thought  he  recognized  in  the  woman  a 
few  feet  behind  whom  he  was  walking  quite  care- 
lessly, a  vague  resemblance  to  the  prettiest  woman 
in  Paris,  a  chaste  and  delicious  being  with  whom 
he  was  secretly  and  passionately  in  love,  and  in  love 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  23 

without  hope,  for  she  was  married.  In  a  moment 
his  heart  leaped,  an  intolerable  heat  seemed  to 
develop  in  his  diaphragm  and  to  pass  into  all 
his  veins,  he  felt  a  chill  in  his  back  and  in  his 
head  a  superficial  trembling.  He  loved,  he  was 
young,  he  knew  Paris;  and  his  perspicacity  did  not 
permit  him  to  ignore  all  that  there  was  possible  of 
infamy  for  a  woman,  elegant,  rich,  young  and 
beautiful,  walking  in  this  locality,  and  with  a  crim- 
inally furtive  step.  She,  in  this  mud,  at  this  hour ! 
The  love  which  this  young  man  bore  for  this  lady 
may  well  seem  romantic,  and  all  the  more  so  that 
he  was  an  officer  in  the  Garde  Royale.  If  he  had 
been  attached  to  the  infantry,  the  thing  might  still 
appear  possible;  but,  a  superior  officer  of  cavalry, 
he  belonged  to  that  arm  of  the  service  which  desires 
the  greatest  rapidity  in  its  conquests,  which  finds 
food  for  vanity  in  its  amorous  affairs  as  much  as  in 
its  uniform.  However,  the  passion  of  this  officer 
was  genuine,  and  to  very  many  young  hearts  it 
will  seem  noble.  He  loved  this  lady  because  she 
was  virtuous,  in  her  he  loved  virtue,  modest 
grace,  and  imposing  sanctity,  as  the  dearest  treas- 
ures of  his  unavowed  passion.  She  was  in  truth 
worthy  of  inspiring  one  of  those  platonic  loves 
which  may  be  met  with,  in  the  history  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  like  flowers  growing  in  bloody  ruins; 
worthy  of  being  secretly  the  inspiring  principle  of 
all  the  actions  of  a  young  man ;  a  love  as  high,  as 
pure,  as  the  sky  when  it  is  blue;  a  love  without 
hope,  and  to  which  we  may  attach  ourselves  because 


24  FERRAGUS 

it  will  never  deceive;  a  love  prodigal  of  unbounded 
enjoyments,  especially  at  an  age  when  the  heart  is 
burning,  the  imagination  keen,  and  when  the  eyes 
of  a  man  see  very  clearly.  There  may  be  met  with 
in  Paris  very  singular  night  effects,  weird  and 
inconceivable.  Those  only  who  have  amused  them- 
selves by  observing  them  can  know  how  fantastic 
may  become  through  their  means  a  woman  in  the 
dusk  of  evening.  At  moments  the  creature  whom 
you  are  following,  accidentally  or  with  design, 
seems  to  you  light  and  slender;  again  the  stock- 
ings, if  they  are  very  white,  convince  you  of 
the  fme  and  elegant  limbs;  then  the  waist,  though 
enveloped  in  a  shawl,  as  in  a  pelisse,  reveals  itself 
young  and  voluptuous,  in  the  shadows;  then  the 
uncertain  lights  of  a  shop  or  of  a  street  lamp  give 
to  the  unknown  a  fleeting  illumination,  nearly 
always  deceptive,  which  awakens,  lights  up  the 
imagination  and  carries  it  beyond  the  limita- 
tions of  fact.  The  senses  are  all  excited,  every- 
thing takes  color  and  animation;  the  woman 
assumes  an  entirely  novel  aspect;  her  person  be- 
comes beautiful ;  at  certain  moments  she  is  no 
longer  a  woman,  she  is  a  demon,  a  will-o'-the-wisp, 
which  entices  you,  by  a  magnetic  attraction,  to 
follow  all  the  way  to  some  respectable  house  where 
the  poor  boiirgeoise,  terrified  by  your  threatening 
step  or  the  sound  of  your  boots,  shuts  the  door  in 
your  face  without  looking  at  you.  A  vacillating 
gleam,  thrown  from  the  shop-window  of  a  shoe- 
maker, suddenly  illuminated  just  below  the  waist 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  25 

the  figure  of  the  woman  who  was  before  the  young 
man.  Ah!  surely,  she  alone  had  those  curves! 
She  alone  possessed  the  secret  of  that  chaste  gait 
which  so  innocently  reveals  the  beauties  of  the 
most  attractive  forms.  That  was  her  shawl  and 
that  the  velvet  bonnet  of  her  morning  promenades. 
On  her  gray  silk  stocking  not  a  spot;  on  her  shoe 
not  a  splash  of  mud.  The  shawl  was  drawn  tightly 
around  the  bust,  it  disclosed  vaguely  the  delicious 
contours;  and  the  young  man  had  seen  the  white 
shoulders  at  balls, — he  knew  well  what  treasures 
that  shawl  covered.  By  the  manner  in  which  a 
Parisian  woman  wraps  herself  in  her  shawl,  by  the 
way  in  which  she  lifts  her  feet  in  the  street,  a  man 
of  quick  intelligence  can  divine  the  secret  of  her 
mysterious  course.  There  is  something,  I  know 
not  what,  of  quivering,  of  lightness,  in  the  whole 
person  and  in  the  gait;  the  woman  seems  to  weigh 
less,  she  goes,  she  goes,  or,  rather,  she  glides  like 
a  star,  and  floats  carried  on  by  a  thought  which  is 
betrayed  by  the  folds  and  by  the  motion  of  her 
dress.  The  young  man  quickened  his  step,  passed 
the  woman,  and  then  turned  to  look  at  her — Pst !  she 
had  disappeared  into  a  passage-way,  the  grated  door 
of  which  and  its  bell  still  rattled  and  sounded.  The 
young  man  turned  on  his  steps  and  saw  this  lady 
mounting,  at  the  end  of  the  passage-way — not  with- 
out receiving  the  obsequious  salutation  of  an  old 
portress — a  winding  staircase,  the  lower  steps  of 
which  were  strongly  illuminated;  and  Madame 
ascended  buoyantly,  quickly,  like  an  eager  woman. 


26  FERRAGUS 

"Eager  for  what?  "  said  the  young  man  to  him- 
self, drawing  back  to  flatten  himself  like  a  grape- 
vine, against  the  wall  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 

And  he  watched,  unhappy  man,  all  the  different 
stories  of  the  house  with  the  close  attention  of  a 
police  agent  searching  for  his  conspirator. 

It  was  one  of  those  houses  of  which  there  are 
thousands  in  Paris,  a  house  ignoble,  vulgar,  narrow, 
yellowish  in  tone,  with  four  stories  and  three  win- 
dows on  each  floor.  The  shop  and  the  entresol 
belonged  to  the  shoemaker.  The  outer  blinds  on 
the  first  floor  were  closed.  Where  was  Madame 
going  ?  The  young  man  thought  he  heard  the  tinkle 
of  a  bell  in  the  apartment  on  the  second  floor.  In 
fact,  a  light  began  to  move  in  a  room  with  two 
windows  strongly  illuminated,  and  suddenly  lit  up 
the  third  window,  the  darkness  of  which  showed 
that  it  was  that  of  a  first  room,  evidently  either  the 
salon  or  the  dining-room  of  the  apartment  Imme- 
diately the  silhouette  of  a  woman's  bonnet  showed 
itself  vaguely,  the  door  closed,  the  first  room  became 
dark  again,  then  the  other  two  windows  resumed 
their  ruddy  glow.  At  this  moment  the  young  man 
heard,  "Look  out  there,"  and  received  a  blow  on 
his  shoulder. 

"You  don't  pay  attention  to  anything,  then," 
said  a  rough  voice. 

It  was  the  voice  of  a  workman  carrying  a  long 
plank  on  his  shoulder.  And  he  passed  on.  This 
workman  was  the  man  sent  by  Providence,  say- 
ing to  this  investigator, — "What  are  you  meddling 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  2/ 

with?  Think  of  your  own  duty,  and  leave  the 
Parisians  to  their  little  affairs." 

The  young  man  crossed  his  arms;  then,  as  no 
one  saw  him,  he  suffered  tears  of  rage  to  roll  down 
his  cheeks  without  drying  them.  At  last,  the  sight 
of  the  shadows  playing  on  the  two  lighted  windows 
gave  him  pain,  he  looked  by  chance  toward  the 
upper  part  of  the  Rue  des  Vieux-Augustins,  and  he 
saw  a  hackney-coach  standing  before  a  wall,  at  a 
locality  where  there  was  neither  the  door  of  a 
house  nor  the  light  of  a  shop. 

Is  it  she?  is  it  not  she?  Life  or  death  for  a 
lover.  And  this  lover  waited.  He  remained  there 
during  a  century  of  twenty  minutes.  After  that, 
the  woman  came  down,  and  he  then  recognized  her 
whom  he  secretly  loved.  Nevertheless,  he  wished 
still  to  doubt.  She  went  toward  the  coach  and  got 
into  it. 

"The  house  will  always  be  there,  I  can  search  it 
at  any  time, "  said  the  young  man  following  the 
carriage  at  a  run  in  order  to  dissipate  his  last 
doubts,  and  very  soon  he  no  longer  had  any. 

The  coach  stopped  in  the  Rue  de  Richelieu 
before  the  shop  of  a  florist,  near  the  Rue  de 
Menars.  The  lady  got  out,  entered  the  shop,  sent 
out  the  money  to  pay  the  coachman  and  came  out 
herself  after  having  selected  a  bunch  of  marabouts. 
Marabouts  for  her  black  hair!  A  brunette,  she 
had  placed  the  feathers  close  to  her  head  to  see 
the  effect.  The  officer  fancied  he  could  hear  the 
conversation  between  her  and  the  florists. 


28  FERRAGUS 

"Madame,  nothing  is  more  becoming  to  brunettes, 
brunettes  have  something  a  little  too  precise  in  their 
contours,  and  the  marabouts  lend  to  their  toilet  a 
softness  which  they  lack.  Madame  la  Duchesse  de 
Langeais  says  that  they  give  to  a  woman  something 
vague,  Ossianic,  and  very  comme  ilfauL*' 

"Very  good.     Send  them  to  me  promptly." 

Then  the  lady  turned  quickly  toward  the  Rue  de 
Menars,  and  entered  her  own  house.  When  the 
door  of  the  hotel  in  which  she  lived  closed  on  her, 
the  young  lover,  having  lost  all  his  hopes,  and,  a 
double  misfortune,  his  dearest  beliefs,  walked  away 
through  the  streets  of  Paris  like  a  drunken  man, 
and  presently  found  himself  in  his  own  room  with- 
out knowing  how  he  got  there.  He  threw  himself 
into  an  arm-chair,  put  his  head  in  his  hands  and 
his  feet  on  the  andirons,  drying  his  dampened 
boots  until  they  burned.  It  was  an  awful  moment, 
one  of  those  moments  in  human  life  when  the  char- 
acter is  modified,  and  when  the  conauct  of  the  best 
man  depends  on  the  good  or  evil  of  his  first  action. 
Providence  or  fatality,  choose  which  you  will. 

This  young  man  belonged  to  a  good  family,  the 
nobility  of  which  was  not  very  ancient;  but  there 
are  so  few  really  old  families  in  these  days,  that  all 
younger  ones  pass  for  ancient  without  dispute. 
His  grandfather  had  purchased  the  office  of  Coun- 
sellor to  the  Parliament  of  Paris,  of  which  he  after- 
wards became  President.  His  sons,  each  pro- 
vided with  a  handsome  fortune,  entered  the  army 
and  through  their    matrimonial    alliances  became 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  29 

attached  to  the  Court.  The  Revolution  swept  this 
family  away;  but  there  remained  one  old  dowager, 
obstinate  enough  to  refuse  to  emigrate,  and  who, 
thrown  into  prison,  threatened  with  death,  and 
saved  on  the  9th  Thermidor,  recovered  her  prop- 
erty. She  recalled  to  France  at  the  proper  time, 
about  1804,  her  grandson,  Auguste  de  Maulincour, 
the  only  scion  of  the  Carbonnons  de  Maulincour,  who 
was  educated  by  the  good  dowager  with  the  triple 
care  of  a  mother,  of  a  woman  of  rank,  and  of  an 
obstinate  dowager.  Then,  when  the  Restoration 
arrived,  the  young  man,  then  eighteen  years  of  age, 
entered  the  Maison  Rouge,  followed  the  princes  to 
Ghent,  was  made  an  officer  in  the  Gardes  du  Corps, 
left  it  to  serve  in  the  line,  was  recalled  to  the 
Garde  Royale,  where  at  twenty-three  years  of  age 
he  found  himself  chef  d'escadron  of  a  regiment  of 
cavalry,  a  superb  position,  and  one  which  he  owed 
to  his  grandmother,  who,  notwithstanding  her  age, 
knew  her  own  world  exceedingly  well.  This  double 
biography  is  a  compendium  of  the  general  and  spe- 
cial history,  barring  variations,  of  all  the  noble 
families  who  have  emigrated,  who  had  debts  and 
property,  dowagers  and  shrewdness.  Madame  la 
Baronne  de  Maulincour  had  for  a  friend  the  old 
Vidame  de  Pamiers,  formerly  a  Commander  of  the 
Knights  of  Malta.  This  was  one  of  those  undying 
friendships  founded  on  sexagenary  ties,  and  which 
nothing  can  destroy,  because  at  the  bottom  of  such 
intimacies  there  are  always  to  be  found  certain 
secrets  of  the  human    heart,   delightful  to  divine 


30  FERRAGUS 

when  we  have  the  time,  but  insipid  to  explain  in 
twenty  lines  and  which  might  furnish  the  text  of  a 
work  in  four  volumes  as  amusing  as  le  Doyen  de 
Killerine,  one  of  those  works  about  which  the  youth 
talk,  and  which  they  judge  but  do  not  read. 
Auguste  de  Maulincour  belonged  therefore  to  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Germain  through  his  grandmother 
and  through  the  vidame,  and  it  sufficed  him  to  date 
back  two  centuries  to  assume  the  airs  and  the  opin- 
ions of  those  who  pretended  to  go  back  to  Clovis. 
This  young  man,  pale,  tall  and  slender,  delicate  in 
appearance,  a  man  of  honor  and  of  true  courage 
moreover,  who  would  engage  in  a  duel  without 
hesitating  for  a  yes  or  for  a  no,  had  not  yet  found 
himself  on  any  battlefield,  and  wore  at  his  button- 
hole the  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  He  was,  as 
you  perceive,  one  of  the  living  errors  of  the  Res- 
toration, perhaps  the  most  pardonable  of  them. 
The  youth  of  those  days  was  the  youth  of  no  epoch ; 
it  came  between  the  memories  of  the  Empire  and 
those  of  the  Emigration,  between  the  old  traditions 
of  the  Court  and  the  conscientious  education  of  the 
bourgeoisie,  between  religion  and  the  masked  balls, 
between  two  political  faiths;  between  Louis  XVII!., 
who  only  saw  the  present,  and  Charles  X.,  who 
looked  too  far  into  the  future;  it  was,  moreover, 
obliged  to  accept  the  will  of  the  king,  although 
royalty  deceived  it.  This  youth,  uncertain  in  all 
things,  blind  and  clear-seeing,  was  counted  as  noth- 
ing by  the  old  men  jealously  keeping  the  reins  of 
State  in  their  palsied  hands,   while  the  monarchy 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  3 1 

might  have  been  saved  by  their  retirement  and  by 
the  accession  of  this  Young  France  of  which  to-day 
the  old  doctrinaires,  the  emigres  of  the  Restoration, 
still  speak  slightingly.  Auguste  de  Maulincour  was 
a  victim  of  the  ideas  which  at  that  time  weighed 
upon  this  youth,  and  in  this  manner.  The  vidame 
was  still  at  sixty-seven  years  of  age  a  very  brilliant 
man,  having  seen  much,  lived  much,  a  good  talker 
and  man  of  honor,  a  gallant  man,  but  who  held  with 
regard  to  women  the  most  detestable  opinions;  he 
loved  them  and  he  despised  them.  Their  honor, 
their  feelings?  Ta-ra-ra-,  trifles  and  nonsense! 
When  he  was  in  their  society  he  believed  in  them, 
the  Ci-devant  monster;  he  never  contradicted 
them  and  he  made  them  display  their  brightest 
qualities.  But  among  his  male  friends,  when  they 
were  brought  into  question,  the  vidame  laid  down 
the  principle  that  to  deceive  women,  to  carry  on 
several  intrigues  at  once,  should  be  the  sole  occupa- 
tion of  young  men,  who  would  be  wasting  their 
time  in  occupying  themselves  with  anything  else 
under  the  government.  It  is  unfortunate  to  have  to 
sketch  so  hackneyed  a  portrait.  Has  it  not  figured 
everywhere.!*  And  has  it  not  become  literally  as 
threadbare  as  that  of  a  grenadier  of  the  Empire.? 
But  the  vidame  had  upon  the  destiny  of  Monsieur 
de  Maulincour  an  influence  which  it  is  necessary  to 
depict;  he  lectured  the  young  man  after  his  fashion 
and  endeavored  to  convert  him  to  the  doctrines  of 
the  great  age  of  gallantry.  The  dowager,  a  woman 
tender-hearted    and     pious,    sitting    between    her 


32  FERRAGUS 

vidame  and  God,  a  model  of  grace  and  of  sweet- 
ness, but  gifted  with  that  well-bred  persistency 
which  triumphs  in  the  long  run,  had  wished  to  pre- 
serve for  her  grandson  the  beautiful  illusions  of  life, 
and  had  educated  him  in  the  highest  principles; 
she  gave  to  him  all  her  own  delicacy  of  feeling  and 
made  him  a  timid  man,  a  coxcomb  in  appearance. 
The  sensibilities  of  this  young  fellow,  preserved 
pure,  were  not  worn  by  contact  without,  and  he 
remained  so  chaste,  so  scrupulous,  that  he  was 
keenly  offended  by  actions  and  maxims  to  which 
the  world  attached  not  the  slightest  importance. 
Ashamed  of  his  susceptibility,  the  young  man  con- 
cealed it  under  a  false  assurance  and  suffered  in 
silence;  but  he  scoffed  with  others  at  things  which 
when  alone  he  reverenced.  Thus  it  happened  that  he 
was  deceived,  because,  in  accordance  with  a  not 
uncommon  caprice  of  destiny,  he  encountered  in  the 
object  of  his  first  passion,  he,  a  man  of  gentle  mel- 
ancholy and  a  spiritualist  in  love,  a  woman  who 
held  in  horror  the  German  sentimentalism.  The 
young  man  distrusted  himself,  became  contempla- 
tive, absorbed  in  his  griefs,  complaining  of  not 
being  understood.  Then,  as  we  desire  all  the  more 
violently  the  things  which  we  find  it  most  difficult 
to  obtain,  he  continued  to  adore  women  with  that 
ingenious  tenderness  and  those  feline  delicacies  the 
secret  of  which  belongs  to  them  alone  and  of  which 
they  perhaps  prefer  to  keep  the  monopoly.  In  fact, 
although  women  complain  of  the  manner  in  which 
men  love  them,  they  have  nevertheless  but  little 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  33 

liking  for  those  whose  souls  are  half  feminine.  All 
their  superiority  consists  in  making  men  believe 
that  they  are  their  inferiors  in  love;  therefore  they 
quit  willingly  enough  a  lover  when  he  is  suffi- 
ciently experienced  to  rob  them  of  those  fears  with 
which  they  seek  to  deck  themselves,  those  delight- 
ful torments  of  feigned  jealousy,  those  troubles  of 
hope  betrayed,  those  vain  expectations,  in  short  the 
whole  procession  of  their  feminine  miseries;  they 
hold  in  horror  the  Grandissons.  What  can  be 
more  contrary  to  their  nature  than  a  tranquil  and 
perfect  love?  They  want  emotions,  and  happiness 
without  storms  is  no  longer  happiness  for  them. 
The  feminine  souls  that  are  strong  enough  to  bring 
the  infinite  into  love  constitute  angelic  exceptions, 
and  are  among  women  what  noble  geniuses  are 
among  men.  The  great  passions  are  as  rare  as 
masterpieces.  Outside  of  this  love  there  are  only 
arrangements,  irritations  passing  and  contemptible, 
as  are  all  things  that  are  petty. 

Amid  the  secret  disasters  of  his  heart,  while  he 
was  still  searching  for  the  woman  by  whom  he 
could  be  comprehended — a  search  which,  let  us  say 
in  passing,  is  the  great  amorous  folly  of  our  epoch — 
Auguste  met  in  the  society  the  farthest  from  his 
own,  in  the  secondary  sphere  of  the  world  of  money 
where  banking  holds  a  first  place,  a  perfect  creature, 
one  of  those  women  who  have  about  them  I  know 
not  what  that  is  saintly  and  sacred,  who  inspire  so 
much  reverence  that  love  has  need  of  all  the  help 
of  a  long  familiarity  to  enable  it  to  declare  itself. 
3 


34  FERRAGUS 

Auguste  then  gave  himself  up  wholly  to  the  delights 
of  the  deepest  and  most  moving  of  passions,  to  a 
love  that  was  purely  adoring.  It  was  composed  of 
innumerable  repressed  desires,  shades  of  passion  so 
vague  and  so  profound,  so  fugitive  and  so  actual, 
that  one  knows  not  what  to  compare  them  to;  they 
are  like  perfumes,  like  clouds,  like  rays  of  the  sun, 
like  shadows,  like  everything  which  in  nature  can 
momentarily  shine  and  disappear,  spring  to  life  and 
die,  leaving  in  the  heart  long  emotions.  While 
the  soul  is  still  young  enough  to  nourish  melan- 
choly, distant  hopes,  and  to  know  how  to  find  in 
woman  more  than  a  woman,  is  it  not  the  greatest 
happiness  that  can  befall  a  man  to  love  enough  to 
feel  more  joy  in  touching  a  white  glove,  or  ever  so 
lightly  the  hair,  to  listen  to  a  phrase,  to  cast  a 
single  look,  than  the  most  rapturous  possession  can 
ever  give  to  happy  love?  Thus  it  is  that  rejected 
persons,  the  ugly,  the  unhappy,  the  unrevealed 
lovers,  women  or  timid  men,  they  alone  know  the 
treasures  contained  in  the  voice  of  the  beloved. 
Taking  their  source  and  their  principle  from  the 
soul  itself,  the  vibrations  of  the  air,  charged  with 
fire,  bring  the  hearts  so  closely  into  communion, 
carry  so  lucidly  thought  between  them,  and  are  so 
incapable  of  falsehood,  that  a  single  inflection  is 
often  a  complete  revelation.  What  enchantments 
can  be  bestowed  upon  the  heart  of  a  poet  by  the 
harmonious  intonations  of  a  soft  voice!  How  many 
ideas  they  awaken  in  it!  What  freshness  they 
shed  there !     Love  is  in  the  voice  before  the  glance 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS        _  35 

avows  it.  Auguste,  poet  after  the  manner  of  lovers 
— there  are  poets  who  feel,  and  poets  who  express, 
the  first  are  the  happier — Auguste  had  tasted  all 
these  first  joys,  so  vast,  so  fecund.  She  possessed 
the  most  pleasing  organ  that  the  most  artificial 
women  in  the  world  could  have  desired  in  order  to 
deceive  at  her  ease;  she  had  that  silvery  voice 
which,  soft  to  the  ear,  is  ringing  only  for  the  heart 
which  it  stirs  and  troubles,  which  it  caresses  in 
overthrowing.  And  this  woman  went  by  night  to 
Rue  Soly,  through  Rue  Pagevin;  and  her  furtive 
apparition  in  an  infamous  house  had  just  de- 
stroyed the  grandest  of  passions!  The  vidame's 
logic  triumphed. 

"If  she  is  betraying  her  husband,  we  will  avenge 
ourselves,"  said  Auguste. 

There  was  still  love  shown  by  that  z/— The 
philosophic  doubt  of  Descartes  is  a  politeness 
with  which  we  should  always  honor  virtue.  Ten 
o'clock  sounded.  The  Baron  de  Maulincour  remem- 
bered at  this  moment  that  this  woman  was  going  to 
a  ball  that  evening  at  a  house  to  which  he  had 
access.  He  immediately  dressed  himself,  set  out, 
arrived  there  and  searched  for  her  with  a  gloomy 
air  through  all  the  salons.  Madame  de  Nucingen, 
seeing  him  so  thoughtful,  said  to  him: 

"You  do  not  see  Madame  Jules,  but  she  has  not 
yet  come.** 

"Good  evening,  my  dear,"  said  a  voice. 

Auguste  and  Madame  de  Nucingen  turned  round. 
Madame  Jules  had  arrived,  dressed  all   in  white, 


36  FERRAGUS 

simple  and  noble,  wearing  in  her  hair  the  very- 
same  marabouts  that  the  young  baron  had  seen  her 
selecting  in  the  flower  shop.  That  voice  of  love 
pierced  the  heart  of  Auguste.  If  he  had  won  the 
slightest  right  which  permitted  him  to  be  jealous 
of  this  woman,  he  would  have  petrified  her  by 
saying  to  her  only:  "Rue  Soly!"  But  if  he,  a 
stranger,  had  repeated  a  thousand  times  this  name 
in  the  ear  of  Madame  Jules  she  would  have  asked 
him  in  astonishment  what  he  meant.  He  looked  at 
her  with  a  stupid  air. 

For  those  malicious  people  who  laugh  at  every- 
thing it  is  perhaps  a  great  amusement  to  detect  the 
secret  of  a  woman,  to  know  that  her  chastity  is  a 
lie,  that  her  calm  face  hides  some  deep  thought, 
that  there  is  some  frightful  drama  hidden  under 
that  pure  brow.  But  there  are  certain  souls  to 
whom  such  a  sight  is  truly  saddening,  and  many  of 
those  who  laugh,  when  withdrawn  into  their  inner 
selves,  alone  with  their  consciences,  curse  the  world 
and  despise  such  a  woman.  Such  was  the  case 
with  Auguste  de  Maulincour  in  the  presence  of 
Madame  Jules.  Singular  situation!  There  was  no 
other  relation  between  them  than  that  which  the 
social  world  establishes  between  persons  who  ex- 
change a  few  words  seven  or  eight  times  in  the 
course  of  a  winter,  and  yet  he  was  calling  her  to 
account  for  a  happiness  unknown  to  her,  he  was 
judging  her  without  informing  her  of  the  accusation. 

Many  young  men  have  found  themselves  thus,  re- 
turning to  themselves,  in  despair  at  having  broken 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  37 

forever  with  a  woman  adored  in  secret;  condemned, 
despised  in  secret.  There  are  hidden  monologues, 
said  to  the  walls  of  some  solitary  lodging,  storms 
roused  and  calmed  without  ever  having  issued  from 
the  bottom  of  hearts,  admirable  scenes  of  the  moral 
world,  for  which  a  painter  is  wanted.  Madame  Jules 
sat  down,  leaving  her  husband  who  was  making 
the  tour  of  the  salon.  When  she  was  seated  she 
seemed  uneasy,  and,  while  talking  with  her  neigh- 
bor, she  watched  furtively  Monsieur  Jules  Desma- 
rets,  her  husband,  the  broker  of  the  Baron  de 
iNucingen.  The  following  is  the  history  of  this 
household: 

Monsieur  Desmarets  was,  five  years  before  his 
marriage,  in  a  broker's  office  with  no  other  means 
than  the  meagre  salary  of  a  clerk.  But  he  was  one 
of  those  men  whom  misfortune  early  instructs  in 
the  things  of  this  life,  and  who  follow  the  straight 
line  with  the  tenacity  of  an  insect  making  for  its 
nest ;  one  of  those  dogged  young  men  who  slay  be- 
fore obstacles  and  who  wear  out  all  patiences  with 
their  own  tireless  patience.  Thus,  young  as  he 
was,  he  had  all  the  republican  virtues  of  poor  peo- 
ples; he  was  sober,  saving  of  his  time,  an  enemy  to 
pleasure.  He  waited.  Nature  had  moreover  given 
him  the  immense  advantage  of  an  agreeable  exte- 
rior. His  calm  and  clear  brow;  the  shape  of  his 
placid  but  expressive  face;  his  simple  manners, 
everything  in  him  revealed  a  laborious  and  resigned 
existence,  that  lofty  personal  dignity  which  is  im- 
posing, and  that  secret  nobility  of  heart  which  can 


18996J. 


38  FERRAGUS 

meet  all  situations.  His  modesty  inspired  a  sort  of 
respect  in  all  those  who  knew  him.  Solitary  more- 
over in  the  midst  of  Paris  he  saw  the  world  only  by 
glimpses  during  the  brief  moments  that  he  spent  in 
his  patron's  salon  on  holidays.  There  were  to  be 
found  in  this  young  man,  as  in  most  of  the  men 
who  live  in  this  manner,  passions  of  amazing  pro- 
fundity,— passions  too  vast  to  permit  him  ever  to 
compromise  himself  in  petty  incidents.  His  want 
of  fortune  compelled  him  to  lead  an  austere  life, 
and  he  conquered  his  fancies  by  hard  work.  When 
he  grew  pale  over  his  figures,  he  found  his  recrea- 
tion in  striving  obstinately  to  acquire  that  wide  and 
general  knowledge  which  to-day  is  so  necessary  to 
every  man  who  wishes  to  make  his  mark  in  soci- 
ety, in  commerce,  at  the  bar,  in  politics,  or  in 
literature.  The  only  peril  which  these  fme  souls 
have  to  fear  is  their  own  uprightness.  Should 
they  see  some  poor  girl,  and  fall  in  love  with  her, 
they  marry  her,  and  they  wear  out  their  lives  in  a 
struggle  between  poverty  and  love.  The  finest  am- 
bition is  quenched  in  the  book  of  household  ex- 
penses. Jules  Desmarets  fell  headlong  into  his 
peril.  One  evening  he  met  at  his  patron's  house 
a  young  girl  of  the  rarest  beauty.  The  unfortunates 
deprived  of  affection  and  who  consume  the  fine 
hours  of  their  youth  in  long  labors,  alone  know  the 
secret  of  these  rapid  ravages  which  passion  makes 
in  their  lonely  and  misunderstood  hearts.  They 
are  so  certain  of  loving  truly,  all  their  forces  are 
concentrated  so  quickly  on  the  woman  who  attracts 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  39 

them  that,  at  her  side,  they  receive  the  most 
delightful  sensation  while  inspiring  frequently  none 
at  all.  This  is  the  most  flattering  of  all  egotisms 
to  a  woman  who  knows  how  to  divine  this  apparently 
immovable  passion  and  these  emotions  so  deep  that 
they  have  required  a  great  length  of  time  to  reach 
the  human  surface.  These  poor  men,  anchorites  in 
the  midst  of  Paris,  have  all  the  enjoyments  of 
anchorites  and  may  sometimes  succumb  to  their 
temptations;  but  more  often  deceived,  betrayed 
and  misunderstood,  it  is  rarely  permitted  to  them 
to  gather  the  sweet  fruits  of  this  love  which  to 
them  is  like  a  flower  dropped  from  heaven.  One 
smile  from  his  wife,  a  single  inflection  of  her  voice, 
sufficed  to  make  Jules  Desmarets  conceive  a  passion 
without  bounds.  Happily,  the  concentrated  fire  of 
this  secret  passion  revealed  itself  ingenuously  to 
the  one  who  inspired  it.  These  two  beings  then 
loved  each  other  religiously.  To  express  all  in  a 
word,  they  took  each  other  by  the  hand  before  all 
the  world  like  two  children,  brother  and  sister,  who 
wished  to  pass  through  a  crowd  where  all  made  way 
for  them  admiringly.  The  young  girl  was  in  one 
of  those  frightful  positions  in  which  human  selfish- 
ness places  some  children.  She  had  no  civil  status, 
and  her  name  of  Clemence,  her  age,  were  recorded 
only  by  a  notary  public.  As  for  her  fortune, 
it  was  insignificant.  Jules  Desmarets  was  the 
happiest  of  men  on  learning  these  misfortunes.  If 
Clemence  had  belonged  to  some  opulent  family,  he 
would  have  despaired  of  obtaining  her;    but  she 


II 


40  FERRAGUS 

was  a  poor  child  of  love,  the  fruit  of  some  terrible 
adulterine  passion;  they  were  married.  Then 
began  for  Jules  Desmarets  a  series  of  fortunate 
events.  Every  one  envied  his  happiness,  and  his 
enviers  accused  him  thenceforward  of  having 
nothing  but  good  fortune,  without  recalling  either 
his  virtues  or  his  courage.  Some  days  after  the 
marriage  of  her  daughter,  the  mother  of  Clemence, 
who  passed  in  society  for  her  godmother,  advised 
Jules  Desmarets  to  purchase  the  connection  of  a 
broker,  promising  to  procure  for  him  the  necessary 
capital.  At  that  time  these  connections  could 
still  be  bought  at  a  moderate  price.  That  evening, 
in  the  salon  of  his  broker,  a  wealthy  capitalist,  as  it 
happened,  on  the  recommendation  of  this  lady, 
proposed  to  Jules  Desmarets  the  most  advantageous 
transaction  that  it  was  possible  for  him  to  conclude, 
gave  him  all  the  funds  that  would  be  required  for 
this  purpose,  and  the  next  day  the  happy  clerk 
bought  out  his  patron.  In  four  years  Jules  Des- 
marets had  become  one  of  the  richest  members  of 
his  profession;  many  new  clients  had  come  to  aug- 
ment the  number  of  those  whom  his  predecessor 
had  left  to  him.  He  inspired  a  boundless  confi- 
dence, and  it  was  impossible  for  him  not  to  be  con- 
scious, by  the  manner  in  which  his  affairs  prospered, 
of  some  secret  influence  due  to  his  mother-in-law,  or 
some  hidden  protection  which  he  attributed  to  Prov- 
idence. At  the  end  of  the  third  year  Clemence 
lost  her  godmother.  By  that  time  Jules,  so-called 
to  distinguish  him  from  his  elder   brother  whom  he 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  41 

had  established  as  a  notary  in  Paris,  possessed  an 
income  of  about  200,000  francs.  There  did  not  exist 
in  all  Paris  another  example  of  the  domestic  happi- 
ness enjoyed  in  this  household.  During  five  years 
this  exceptional  love  had  only  been  troubled  by  one 
calumny,  for  which  Monsieur  Jules  exacted  signal 
vengeance.  One  of  his  former  comrades  attributed 
the  fortune  of  the  husband  to  Madame  Jules,  ex- 
plaining that  it  came  from  a  high  protection  dearly 
purchased.  The  calumniator  was  killed  in  a  duel. 
The  deep  passion  of  this  couple,  mutual  as  it  was, 
and  which  survived  marriage,  obtained  the  greatest 
success  in  the  social  world,  though  some  women 
were  baffled  by  it.  The  charming  household  was 
respected,  everybody  feted  it.  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Jules  were  sincerely  liked,  perhaps  because 
there  is  nothing  pleasanter  than  to  see  happy  peo- 
ple; but  they  never  remained  long  in  any  salon, 
and  escaped  as  if  impatient  to  regain  their  nest  in 
haste,  like  two  wandering  doves.  This  nest  was, 
moreover,  a  large  and  handsome  hotel  in  the  Rue  de 
Menars,  where  a  feeling  for  art  tempered  that  lux- 
ury which  the  financial  world  continues,  tradition- 
ally, to  display,  and  where  they  received  magnifi- 
cently, although  the  obligations  of  social  life  suited 
them  but  little.  Nevertheless,  Jules  submitted  to 
the  demands  of  the  world,  knowing  that  sooner  or 
later  a  family  has  need  of  it;  but  his  wife  and  he 
always  felt  themselves  in  its  midst  like  greenhouse 
plants  in  a  tempest.  With  a  delicacy  that  was  very 
natural,  Jules  had  carefully  concealed  from  his  wife 


42  FERRAGUS 

the  calumny  and  the  death  of  the  calumniator  which 
had  well-nigh  troubled  their  felicity.  Madame  Jules 
was  inclined,  by  her  delicate  and  artistic  nature, 
to  love  luxury.  Notwithstanding  the  terrible  lesson 
of  the  duel,  some  imprudent  women  whispered  to 
each  other  that  Madame  Jules  must  frequently  be 
embarrassed  for  money.  The  twenty  thousand 
francs  which  her  husband  gave  her  for  her  dress 
and  for  her  fancies,  could  not,  according  to  their  cal- 
culations, suffice  for  her  expenses.  In  fact,  she  was 
often  found  more  elegantly  dressed  in  her  own  home 
than  when  she  went  into  society.  She  loved  to 
adorn  herself  only  to  please  her  husband,  as  though 
wishing  thus  to  prove  to  him  that  to  her  he  was 
more  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  A  true  love,  a 
pure  love,  happy  above  all,  as  much  so  as  can  be  a 
love  which  is  publicly  clandestine.  Thus  Monsieur 
Jules,  always  a  lover,  and  more  loving  each  day, 
happy  to  be  near  his  wife,  even  in  her  caprices, 
would  have  been  uneasy  if  he  had  not  found  any  in 
her,  as  though  it  would  have  been  the  symptom  of 
some  illness.  Auguste  de  Maulincour  had  had  the 
unhappiness  of  clashing  this  passion,  and  of 
madly  falling  in  love  with  this  woman.  Never- 
theless, though  he  carried  in  his  heart  a  love  so 
sublime,  he  was  not  ridiculous.  He  complied  with 
all  the  demands  of  military  manners  and  customs; 
but  he  wore  constantly,  even  when  drinking  a  glass 
of  champagne,  that  dreamy  look,  that  silent  disdain 
for  existence,  that  nebulous  expression,  which,  for 
various  reasons,  the  biases  wear,  those  dissatisfied 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  43 

with  hollow  life,  and  those  who  believe  themselves 
consumptive,  or  who  please  themselves  by  imagin- 
ing an  affection  of  the  heart.  To  love  without 
hope,  to  be  disgusted  with  life,  constitute  in  these 
days  a  social  position.  The  enterprise  of  invading 
the  heart  of  a  sovereign  might  give,  perhaps,  more 
hope  than  a  rashly  conceived  love  for  a  happy 
woman.  Therefore  Maulincour  had  sufficient  rea- 
sons for  remaining  grave  and  gloomy.  A  queen 
retains  the  vanity  of  her  power,  she  has  against  her 
her  lofty  elevation;  but  a  pious  bourgeoise  is  like  a 
hedgehog,  like  an  oyster,  in  their  rough  envelopes. 
At  this  moment  the  young  officer  was  beside  his 
nameless  mistress,  who  certainly  was  not  aware 
that  she  was  doubly  faithless.  Madame  Jules  was 
seated  in  a  naive  attitude,  like  the  least  artful  wo- 
man in  the  world,  gentle,  full  of  a  majestic  serenity. 
What  an  abyss  is  human  nature  after  all  ?  Before 
beginning  the  conversation,  the  baron  looked  alter- 
nately at  this  lady  and  at  her  husband.  How 
many  reflections  did  he  not  make?  He  recomposed  / 
Young's  Night  Thoughts  in  a  moment.  Mean- 
while the  music  was  sounding  through  the  apart- 
ments, the  light  was  poured  from  a  thousand 
candles,  it  was  a  banker's  ball,  one  of  those  insolent 
festivities  by  which  this  world  of  dull  gold  endeav- 
ored to  scorn  the  gilded  salons  in  which  laughed  the 
fine  company  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  not 
foreseeing  the  day  when  the  bank  would  invade  the 
Luxembourg  and  take  its  seat  upon  the  throne. 
The   conspirators  were   dancing  at  this   moment, 


44  FERRAGUS 

as  indifferent  to  the  future  bankruptcies  of  power 
as  to  future  failures  of  banks.  The  gilded  salons 
of  Monsieur  le  Baron  de  Nucingen  had  that 
peculiar  animation  which  fashionaole  Paris,  joyous 
in  appearance  at  least,  gives  to  the  festivals  of 
Paris.  There,  men  of  talent  communicate  their 
wit  to  fools,  and  fools  communicate  that  air  of  hap- 
piness which  characterizes  them.  By  this  exchange 
everything  becomes  animated.  But  a  festival  in 
Paris  always  a  little  resembles  a  display  of  fire- 
works; wit,  coquetry  and  pleasure  all  sparkle  and 
all  go  out  like  rockets.  The  next  day,  every  one 
has  forgotten  his  wit,  his  coquetries  and  his  pleasure. 

"Well,  then !"  thought  Auguste  by  way  of  con- 
clusion, "women  are,  after  all,  just  as  the  vidame 
sees  them.''  Certainly,  all  those  dancing  here  are 
less  irreproachable  than  Madame  Jules  appears, 
and  Madame  Jules  goes  to  Rue  Soly. " 

Rue  Soly  was  his  malady,  the  very  word  con- 
tracted his  heart. 

"Madame,  you  never  dance  then  ?  "  he  asked  her. 

"This  is  the  third  time  that  you  have  asked  me 
that  question  since  the  commencement  of  the  win- 
ter," she  answered  smiling. 

"But  you  have  perhaps  never  answered  it." 

"That  is  true." 

"I  knew  very  well  that  you  were  deceptive,  as 
are  all  other  women — " 

And  Madame  Jules  continued  to  smile. 

"Listen,  Monsieur,  if  I  told  you  the  real  reason, 
it  would  seem  to  you  ridiculous.     I  do  not  think 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  45 

that  it  is  deceiving  not  to  tell  secrets  at  which  the 
world  is  in  the  habit  of  laughing." 

"Every  secret  demands,  in  order  to  be  told,  a 
friendship  of  which  I  am  doubtless  unworthy, 
Madame.  But  you  could  not  have  any  but  noble 
secrets,  and  do  you  think  me  then  capable  of  jest- 
ing on  worthy  things .''  " 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "You,  like  all  the  others,  you 
laugh  at  our  purest  feelings;  you  calumniate  them. 
Besides,  I  have  no  secrets.  1  have  the  right  to 
love  my  husband  in  the  face  of  all  the  world,  1  say 
it,  I  am  proud  of  it;  and  if  you  laugh  at  me  when  1 
tell  you  that  I  dance  only  with  him,  1  shall  have 
the  worst  opinion  of  your  heart." 

"You  have  never  danced,  since  your  marriage, 
with  anyone  but  your  husband?" 

"Never,  Monsieur.  His  arm  is  the  only  one  on 
which  I  have  leaned,  and  I  have  never  felt  the 
touch  of  another  man." 

"Your  physician,  has  he  never  felt  your  pulse?" 

"Well,  now,  you  are  laughing  at  me." 

"No,  Madame,  I  admire  you  because  I  compre- 
hend you.  But  you  let  us  hear  your  voice,  you  let 
us  look  at  you,  but — in  fact,  you  permit  our  eyes  to 
admire  you — " 

"Ah!  that  is  one  of  my  griefs,"  she  said,  inter- 
rupting him.  "Yes,  I  would  have  had  it  possible 
for  a  married  woman  to  live  with  her  husband  as  a 
mistress  lives  with  her  lover;  for,  then — " 

"Then  why  were  you  a  few  hours  ago  on  foot, 
disguised,  on  Rue  Soly?" 


46  FERRAGUS 

"What  is  Rue  Soly  ? "  she  asked  him. 

And  her  voice  so  pure  betrayed  no  sign  of  any 
emotion,  no  feature  of  her  face  quivered,  she  did 
not  blush,  and  she  remained  calm. 

"What!  you  did  not  go  up  to  the  second  floor  of 
a  house  situated  in  Rue  des  Vieux-Augustins,  at  the 
corner  of  Rue  Soly  ?  You  did  not  have  a  hackney- 
coach  waiting  ten  paces  away,  and  you  did  not 
return  to  Rue  de  Richelieu,  to  a  flower  shop,  where 
you  selected  the  marabout  feathers  that  you  are  now 
wearing? " 

"I  did  not  leave  my  house  this  evening." 

In  lying  thus,  she  was  smiling  and  imperturbable, 
she  fanned  herself;  but  if  someone  who  enjoyed  the 
right  had  passed  a  hand  under  her  girdle,  in  the 
middle  of  her  back  he  would  perhaps  have  found  it 
moist.  At  that  instant  Auguste  remembered  the 
instructions  of  the  vidame. 

"Then  it  was  someone  who  strangely  resembled 
you,"  he  said  with  a  credulous  air. 

"Monsieur,"  she  resumed,  "if  you  are  capable  of 
following  a  woman  and  detecting  her  secrets,  you 
will  permit  me  to  say  to  you  that  that  is  wrong, 
very  wrong,  and  I  do  you  the  honor  not  to  believe 
you." 

The  baron  turned  away,  took  his  stand  before  the 
fireplace,  and  appeared  thoughtful.  He  bent  his 
head;  but  his  look  was  covertly  fixed  on  Madame 
Jules,  who,  not  thinking  of  the  reflection  in  the 
mirror,  cast  at  him  two  or  three  glances  that  were 
full  of  terror.     Presently  she  made  a  sign  to  her 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  47 

husband,  whose  arm  she  took  as  she  rose  to  walk 
about  the  salon.  When  she  passed  close  to  Mon- 
sieur de  Maulincour,  he,  who  was  speaking  with  one 
of  his  friends,  said,  raising  his  voice,  as  if  he  were 
replying  to  a  question : 

"There  is  a  woman  who  certainly  will  not  sleep 
quietly  this  night — " 

Madame  Jules  stopped,  threw  upon  him  an  impos- 
ing look  full  of  scorn  and  continued  her  walk,  with- 
out knowing  that  one  look  the  more,  if  surprised 
by  her  husband,  might  put  in  danger  her  own  hap- 
piness and  the  lives  of  two  men.  Auguste,  the 
prey  of  a  rage  which  he  smothered  in  the  depths  of 
his  soul,  presently  left  the  house,  swearing  to  pen- 
etrate to  the  heart  of  this  intrigue.  Before  leaving, 
he  sought  Madame  Jules  in  order  to  see  her  once 
more,  but  she  had  disappeared.  What  a  drama  cast 
into  that  young  head  so  eminently  romantic,  like 
all  those  which  have  not  known  love  in  the  wide 
extent  which  they  ascribe  to  it !  He  adored  Madame 
Jules  under  a  new  aspect,  he  loved  her  with  the 
fury  of  jealousy,  with  the  frenzied  anguish  of  hope. 
Unfaithful  to  her  husband,  this  woman  became 
common.  Auguste  could  now  give  himself  up  to  the 
joys  of  a  successful  love,  and  his  imagination 
opened  to  him  the  immense  career  of  the  pleasures 
of  possession.  In  fine,  if  he  had  lost  the  angel,  he 
had  found  the  most  delicious  of  demons.  He  went 
to  bed  building  a  thousand  castles  in  the  air,  justify- 
ing Madame  Jules  by  some  romantic  fiction  in 
which  he  did  not  believe  himself.     Then  he  resolved 


48  FERRAGUS 

to  devote  himself  wholly,  from  the  morrow,  to  the 
search  for  the  causes,  the  motives  of  the  intrigue 
which  this  mystery  concealed.  It  was  a  romance  to 
read;  or,  better,  a  drama  to  play,  and  in  which  he 
had  his  part. 


* 

A  very  fine  thing  is  the  trade  of  a  spy,  when  it 
is  followed  for  one's  own  benefit  and  in  the  interest 
of  a  passion.  Is  it  not  to  give  ourselves  the  pleas- 
ures of  a  thief  while  remaining  an  honest  man? 
But  it  is  necessary  to  resign  one's  self  to  boiling 
with  rage,  to  roaring  with  impatience,  to  freezing 
the  feet  in  the  mud,  to  be  benumbed  and  to  burn, 
to  devour  false  hopes.  It  is  necessary  to  go,  on  the 
faith  of  a  mere  indication,  towards  an  unknown 
goal,  to  miss  our  stroke,  to  fume,  to  improvise  for 
ourselves  elegies,  dithyrambics,  to  exclaim  idiotic- 
ally before  an  inoffensive  passer-by  who  stops  to 
admire  you ;  then  to  knock  over  old  apple-women 
and  their  baskets  of  fruit,  to  run,  to  rest,  to  mount 
guard  beneath  a  window,  to  make  a  thousand  sup- 
positions.—  But  it  is  the  hunt,  the  hunt  in  Paris, 
the  hunt  with  all  its  chances,  less  the  dogs,  the  gun 
and  the  tally-ho!  It  is  not  to  be  compared  with 
anything  but  the  lives  of  gamblers.  But  it  needs  a 
heart  big  with  love  and  with  vengeance  to  ambush 
itself  in  Paris,  like  a  tiger  waiting  to  spring  on  its 
prey,  and  to  enjoy  thus  all  the  possibilities  of  Paris 
and  of  a  quarter,  in  furnishing  them  one  interest  the 
more  to  those  in  which  they  already  abound.  For 
this  must  we  not  have  a  multiple  soul }  Shall  we 
not  have  to  live  in  a  thousand  passions,  a  thousand 
simultaneous  sentiments  ? 
4  (49) 


50  FERRAGUS 

Auguste  de  Maulincour  plunged  passionately  into 
this  ardent  existence,  for  he  felt  all  its  unhappinesses 
and  all  its  pleasures.  He  went  disguised  through 
Paris,  watching  at  all  the  corners  of  Rue  Page- 
vin  or  of  Rue  des  Vieux-Augustins.  He  hurried 
like  a  hunter  from  Rue  de  Menars  to  Rue  Soly, 
and  from  Rue  Soly  to  Rue  de  Menars,  without 
obtaining  either  the  vengeance  or  the  reward 
with  which  would  be  punished  or  recompensed 
all  these  cares,  these  efforts  and  these  ruses! 
However,  he  had  not  yet  reached  that  impatience 
which  wrings  our  entrails  and  makes  us  sweat;  he 
roamed  about  hopefully,  calculating  that  Madame 
Jules  would  not  venture  during  the  first  few  days 
to  return  to  the  locality  where  she  had  been  de- 
tected. So  he  had  devoted  these  first  days  to 
acquiring  a  knowledge  of  all  the  secrets  of  the 
street.  A  novice  in  this  trade,  he  dared  not  ques- 
tion either  the  porter  or  the  shoemaker  of  the  house 
into  which  Madame  Jules  went;  but  he  hoped  to 
be  able  to  establish  a  post  of  observation  in  the 
house  directly  opposite  to  the  mysterious  apart- 
ment. He  studied  the  ground,  he  endeavored  to 
conciliate  prudence  and  impatience,  his  love  and 
secrecy. 

During  the  first  days  of  the  month  of  March,  in 
the  midst  of  the  plans  by  which  he  thought  to 
strike  a  decisive  blow,  leaving  his  post  after  one  of 
those  patient  vigils  by  which  he  had  as  yet 
learned  nothing,  he  was  returning  about  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  to  his  own  house  to  which  he  was 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  5 1 

recalled  by  a  matter  relating  to  his  military  service, 
when  he  was  overtaken  in  Rue  Coquilliere  by 
one  of  those  heavy  showers  which  instantly  flood 
the  gutters,  and  of  which  each  drop  splashes  loudly 
in  the  puddles  of  the  roadway.  A  pedestrian  in 
Paris,  under  these  circumstances,  is  forced  to  stop 
short  and  take  refuge  in  a  shop  or  in  a  cafe,  if  he 
is  rich  enough  to  pay  for  the  forced  hospitality  or, 
according  to  the  urgency  of  the  case,  under  a  porte- 
cochere,  that  asylum  for  the  poor  and  the  shabby. 
How  is  it  that  none  of  our  painters  have  ever 
attempted  to  reproduce  the  appearance  of  a  crowd 
of  Parisians  grouped  during  a  storm  under 
the  dripping  portico  of  a  house?  Where  could 
they  find  a  richer  subject?  Is  there  not,  first  of 
all,  the  musing  or  philosophical  pedestrian,  who 
observes  with  pleasure  all  he  sees, — whether  it  be 
the  stripes  made  by  the  rain  on  the  gray  back- 
ground of  the  atmosphere,  a  species  of  chasing 
something  like  the  capricious  threads  of  spun  glass; 
or  the  whirlwinds  of  clear  water  which  the  wind 
rolls  in  luminous  dust  along  the  roofs;  or  the  capri- 
cious overflowings  of  the  gutter-pipes,  crackling  and 
foaming;  in  short,  the  thousand  other  admirable 
nothings,  studied  with  delight  by  the  idlers,  not- 
withstanding the  strokes  of  the  broom  with  which 
they  are  regaled  by  the  occupant  of  the  porter's 
lodge?  Then  there  is  the  talkative  pedestrian,  who 
complains  and  converses  with  the  porter's  wife 
while  she  leans  on  her  broom  like  a  grenadier  on  his 
musket;  the  needy  pedestrian,  curiously  flattened 


52  FERRAGUS 

against  the  wall,  without  any  regard  for  his  rags 
long  accustomed  to  the  contact  of  the  streets ;  the 
learned  pedestrian,  who  studies,  spells  or  reads  the 
posters  without  finishing  them;  the  laughing  pedes- 
trian, who  amuses  himself  with  those  to  whom 
some  accident  happens  in  the  street,  who  laughs  at 
the  muddy  women  and  makes  grimaces  to  those  of 
either  sex  who  are  at  the  windows;  the  silent  pedes- 
trian, who  studies  all  the  windows,  all  the  stories; 
the  laboring  pedestrian,  armed  with  a  satchel  or 
furnished  with  a  package,  who  is  estimating  the 
rain  as  so  much  profit  or  so  much  loss;  the  good- 
natured  pedestrian  who  arrives  like  a  bomb-shell 
exclaiming,  "Ah!  what  weather.  Messieurs!"  and 
who  salutes  everybody ;  and,  finally,  the  true  bour- 
geois of  Paris,  a  man  with  an  umbrella,  an  expert  in 
showers,  who  has  foreseen  this  one,  has  come  out 
in  spite  of  his  wife,  and  who  is  now  seated  in  the 
porter's  chair.  According  to  his  character,  each 
member  of  this  fortuitous  society  contemplates  the 
sky  and  finally  departs,  skipping  so  as  not  to  splash 
himself,  or  because  he  is  in  a  hurry,  or  because  he 
sees  other  citizens  marching  along  in  spite  of  wind 
and  tide,  or  because,  the  archway  of  the  house  being 
damp  and  mortally  catarrhal,  the  bed's  edge,  as  the 
proverb  says,  is  worse  than  the  sheets.  Each  one 
has  his  own  motive.  No  one  is  left  but  the  prudent 
pedestrian,  the  man  who,  before  he  sets  out  again, 
waits  to  spy  some  bits  of  blue  in  the  midst  of  the 
rifting  clouds. 

Monsieur  de  Maulincour  took  refuge  then,  with  a 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  53 

whole  family  of  foot  passengers,  under  the  porch  of 
an  old  house,  the  court-yard  of  which  resembled  an 
immense  chimney  flue.  There  were  along  its  plas- 
tered, saltpetred  and  mouldy  walls  so  many  lead 
pipes  and  so  many  conduits  from  all  the  floors  of  its 
four  main  parts  that  you  would  have  said  it  was 
like  the  Cascatelles  of  Saint-Cloud.  Water  flowed 
everywhere;  it  boiled,  it  leaped,  it  murmured;  it 
was  black,  white,  blue,  green;  it  cried  aloud,  it 
multiplied  itself  under  the  broom  of  the  portress,  a 
toothless  old  woman  accustomed  to  storms,  who 
seemed  to  bless  them  as  she  swept  into  the  street 
a  thousand  bits  of  rubbish  of  which  the  curious 
inventory  would  have  revealed  the  life  and  the 
habits  of  every  dweller  in  the  house.  There  were 
scraps  of  printed  cotton,  tea-leaves,  artificial  flower 
petals  faded  and  worthless,  parings  of  vegetables, 
papers,  fragments  of  metal.  At  every  stroke  of 
her  broom  the  old  woman  laid  bare  the  bed  of  the 
gutter,  that  black  crevice,  cut  out  in  squares,  over 
which  the  porters  are  so  exercised.  The  poor 
lover  examined  this  scene,  one  of  those  thousands 
which  agitated  Paris  presents  daily;  but  he  exam- 
ined it  mechanically,  like  a  man  absorbed  in  his 
thoughts,  when,  raising  his  eyes,  he  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  a  man  who  had  just  entered. 

This  man  was,  in  appearance  at  least,  a  beggar, 
but  not  the  Parisian  beggar,  that  creation  without  a 
name  in  human  language;  no,  this  man  formed 
another  type,  outside  of  all  the  usual  ideas  suggested 
by  the  word  "beggar."     The  unknown    was  not 


54  FERRAGUS 

distinguished  in  any  way  by  that  character,  origi- 
nally Parisian,  which  strikes  us  so  frequently  in 
the  unfortunates  whom  Charlet  has  sometimes  rep- 
resented with  a  rare  happiness  of  observation, — 
coarse  faces  rolled  in  the  mud,  with  hoarse  voices, 
reddened  and  bulbous  noses,  mouths  deprived  of 
teeth,  although  menacing;  humble  and  terrible 
beings,  in  whom  the  profound  intelligence  which 
shines  in  their  eyes  seems  like  a  contradiction. 
Some  of  these  bold  vagabonds  have  blotched, 
cracked,  veiny  skin;  the  forehead  covered  with 
wrinkles;  the  hair  scanty  and  dirty,  like  that  of  a 
wig  thrown  into  a  corner.  All  of  them  gay  in  their 
degradation,  and  degraded  in  their  joys,  all  of  them 
marked  with  the  stamp  of  debauchery,  cast  their 
silence  like  a  reproach;  their  attitude  reveals 
frightful  thoughts.  Placed  between  crime  and  beg- 
gary they  no  longer  have  any  remorse,  and  circle 
prudently  around  the  scaffold  without  mounting  it, 
innocent  in  the  midst  of  vice,  vicious  in  the  midst 
of  their  innocence.  They  often  cause  a  smile,  but 
they  always  cause  reflection.  One  represents  to 
you  civilization  stunted  and  repressed,  he  compre- 
hends everything; — the  honor  of  the  galleys,  coun- 
try, virtue;  then  it  is  the  malice  of  a  vulgar 
crime,  and  the  fine  craftiness  of  elegant  wickedness. 
Another  is  resigned,  a  deep  mimic  but  a  stupid  one. 
All  of  them  have  faint  indications  of  order  and  of 
work,  but  they  are  pushed  back  into  their  mire  by 
a  society  which  does  not  care  to  inquire  as  to  what 
there  may  be  of  poets,  of  great  men,  of  intrepid  souls 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  55 

and  magnificent  organizations  among  these  beggars, 
these  Bohemians  of  Paris;  a  people  eminently  good 
and  eminently  wicked,  like  all  the  masses  who  have 
suffered;  accustomed  to  supporting  unheard-of  ills, 
and  whom  a  fatal  power  always  keeps  down  to  thei^ 
level  of  the  mud.  They  all  have  a  dream,  a  hope, 
a  happiness, — cards,  lottery  or  wine.  There  was 
nothing  of  all  this  strange  life  in  the  personage  lean- 
ing so  carelessly  against  the  wall  before  Monsieur 
de  Maulincour,  like  some  fantastic  idea  designed  by 
a  skilful  artist  on  the  back  of  a  canvas  turned  with 
its  face  to  the  wall  in  his  atelier.  This  man,  long 
and  dry,  whose  leaden  visage  betrayed  a  deep 
but  chilling  thought,  dried  up  all  pity  in  the  hearts 
of  the  curious  by  his  sarcastic  aspect  and  by  his 
black  looks  which  announced  an  intention  of  treat- 
ing every  man  as  his  equal.  His  face  was  of  a 
dirty  white,  and  his  wrinkled  skull,  denuded  of 
hair,  bore  a  vague  resemblance  to  a  block  of  granite, 
A  few  straight  and  gray  locks  on  each  side  of  his  head 
fell  to  the  collar  of  his  greasy  coat  which  was  but- 
toned to  the  chin.  He  resembled  at  once  Voltaire 
and  Don  Quixote;  he  was  a  scoffer  and  melancholy, 
full  of  disdain,  of  philosophy,  but  at  least  half  de- 
ranged. He  seemed  to  have  no  shirt.  His  beard 
was  long.  His  rusty  black  cravat,  quite  worn  out 
and  ragged,  exposed  a  protuberant  neck,  deeply  fur- 
rowed, with  thick  veins  like  cords.  A  large  brown 
circle  like  a  bruise  was  strongly  marked  beneath 
each  eye.  He  seemed  to  be  at  least  sixty  years  old. 
His  hands  were  white  and  clean.     His  boots  were 


56  FERRAGUS 

full  of  holes  and  trodden  down  at  the  heels.  His 
blue  pantaloons,  mended  in  several  places,  were 
whitened  by  a  species  of  fluff  which  made  them 
offensive  to  the  eye.  Whether  it  was  that  his 
damp  clothes  exhaled  a  fetid  odor,  or  that  he  had  in 
his  normal  condition  that  smell  of  poverty  which 
belongs  to  the  Parisian  dens,  just  as  offices,  sacris- 
ties and  hospitals  have  their  own,  a  fetid  and  rancid 
smell,  of  which  no  words  can  give  the  least  idea, 
the  neighbors  of  this  man  moved  away  from  him 
and  left  him  alone.  He  cast  upon  them  and  then 
upon  the  officer  his  calm  and  expressionless  look, 
the  so  celebrated  regard  of  Monsieur  de  Talleyrand, 
v^  a  dull,  cold  glance,  a  species  of  impenetrable  veil 
beneath  which  a  strong  soul  conceals  profound 
emotion  and  the  most  exact  estimation  of  men, 
things  and  events.  Not  a  fold  of  his  face  quivered. 
His  mouth  and  his  forehead  were  impassible;  but 
his  eyes  lowered  themselves  with  a  noble  and 
almost  tragic  slowness.  There  was  in  fact  a  whole 
drama  in  the  movement  of  these  withered  eye-lids. 
The  aspect  of  this  stoical  figure  gave  rise  in  Mon- 
sieur de  Maulincour  to  one  of  those  vagabond  rev- 
eries which  begin  with  a  common  interrogation  and 
end  by  comprising  a  whole  world  of  thought.  The 
storm  was  past.  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  saw  no 
more  of  the  man  than  the  skirt  of  his  coat  as  it 
brushed  the  outside  wall ;  but  as  he  left  his  place 
to  depart,  he  saw  under  his  feet  a  letter  which  had 
fallen  and  which  he  supposed  to  have  belonged  to 
the  unknown,  as  he  had  seen  him  put  back  in  his 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  57 

pocket  a  handkerchief  which  he  had  used.  The 
officer,  who  picked  up  the  letter  to  return  it  to  him, 
read  the  address  involuntarily: 

"A  Mosieur, 
Mosieur  Ferragusse, 
Rue  des  Grands-Augustains,   au  coing  de  la  rue  Soly, 

PARIS." 

The  letter  bore  no  postmark  and  the  address 
served  to  prevent  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  from 
returning  it;  there  are  besides  few  passions  that,  in 
the  long  run,  will  not  come  to  be  lacking  in  probity. 
The  baron  had  a  presentiment  of  the  opportunity 
of  this  windfall,  and  determined,  by  keeping  the 
letter,  to  give  himself  the  right  of  entrance  into 
the  mysterious  house  to  return  it  to  this  man,  not 
doubting  that  he  lived  in  this  suspected  dwelling. 
Already  suspicions,  vague  as  the  first  gleams  of 
daylight,  caused  him  to  establish  relations  between 
this  man  and  Madame  Jules.  Jealous  lovers  sup- 
pose everything;  and  it  is  by  supposing  everything 
and  then  selecting  the  most  probable  of  these  con- 
jectures that  judges,  spies,  lovers  and  observers, 
arrive  at  the  truth  which  most  interests  them. 
"Is  the  letter  for  him  ?  Is  it  from  Madame  Jules  ?  " 
His  unquiet  imagination  tossed  a  thousand  ques- 
tions together  at  him  at  once ;  but  at  the  first  words 
he  smiled.  Here  is,  textually,  in  all  the  splendor 
■of  its  artless  phrases  and  its  ignoble  orthography, 
this  letter  to  which  it  would  be  impossible  to  add 
anything,  just  as  nothing  should  be  taken  away. 


58  FERRAGUS 

unless  it  were  the  letter  itself,  but  it  has  been  nec- 
essary to  punctuate  it  in  reproducing  it  In  the  origi- 
nal, there  are  neither  commas  nor  stops  of  any  kind 
indicated,  not  even  notes  of  exclamation, — a  fact 
which  tends  to  demolish  the  system  of  points  and 
punctuation  by  which  modern  authors  have  endeav- 
ored to  depict  the  great  disasters  of  all  the  passions : 

"Henry, 

"Among  the  many  sacrifisis  which  I  imposed  upon  myself 
for  your  sal<e  was  that  of  no  longer  giving  you  any  news  of 
myself;  but  an  irresistible  voice  now  tells  me  to  let  you  know 
the  wrongs  you  done  me.  I  know  beforehand  that  your  soul 
hardened  in  vice  will  not  pitty  me.  Your  heart  is  def  to  feel- 
ing. Is  it  not  so  too  to  the  cries  of  nature?  But  what  matter; 
1  must  tell  you  to  what  a  dredful  point  your  are  gilty  and  the 
horror  of  the  position  in  which  you  have  put  me.  Henry, 
you  knew  all  what  I  suffered  from  my  first  fault  and  yet  you 
have  plunged  me  into  the  same  misery  and  then  abbandoned 
me  to  my  despair  and  my  suffering.  Yes  1  will  sai  it,  the  belif 
that  I  had  of  being  loved  and  esteamed  by  you  gave  me  corage 
to  bare  my  fate.  But  to-day  what  have  1  left?  Have  you  not 
maid  me  lose  all  that  1  had  that  was  most  deer,  all  that  held 
me  to  life:  parens,  trends,  'onor,  reputation,  I  have  sacrifised 
all  to  you  and  nothing  is  left  me  but  oprobrum,  shame,  and  I 
say  it  without  blushing,  poverty.  Nothing  was  wanting  to 
my  unhappiness  but  the  sertainty  of  your  contempt  and  your 
haite;  and  now  1  have  them  1  will  find  the  corage  that  my 
project  requires.  My  decision  is  taken  and  the  honor  of  my 
family  commands  it;  I  am  going  then  to  put  an  end  to  my 
suffering.  Do  not  make  any  reflecions  on  my  project,  Henry. 
It  is  awful,  I  know  it,  but  my  condition  forses  me  to  it.  With- 
out help,  without  support,  without  a.  friend  to  console  me,  can 
I  live?  No.  Fate  hasdesidedfor  me  So  in  two  days,  Henry, 
in  two  days,  Ida  will  be  no  longer  worthy  of  your  esteam;  but 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  59 

hear  the  oath  that  1  make  you  that  my  conscience  is  at  peace, 
since  I  have  never  seased  to  be  worthy  of  your  friendship. 
Oh,  Henry,  my  friend,  for  I  can  never  change  to  you,  promise 
me  that  you  will  forgive  me  for  what  I  am  going  to  do.  My 
love  has  given  me  corage,  it  will  sustane  me  in  virtue.  My 
heart  all  full  of  your  figger  will  be  for  me  a  preservative 
against  seduction.  Do  not  forget  never  that  my  fate  is  your 
work,  and  judge  yourself.  May  Haven  not  punish  you  for 
your  crime,  it  is  on  my  knees  that  I  ask  your  pardon,  for  I 
feel  it,  nothing  will  be  wanting  to  my  miseries  but  the  sorow 
of  knowing  you  unhaapy.  In  spite  of  the  destitution  in  which 
I  find  myself  I  will  refuse  all  kind  of  help  from  you.  If  you 
had  loved  me  I  would  have  received  it  as  coming  from  your 
friendship,  but  a  benefit  given  by  pitty,  my  soul  refusis  it,  and 
I  would  be  baser  in  taking  it  than  he  who  offered  it  to  me. 
I  have  one  favor  to  ask  of  you.  I  don't  know  how  long  I 
must  stay  at  Madame  Meynardie's,  be  genrous  enough  not 
to  come  to  see  me.  Your  last  two  visits  did  me  a  harm  which 
I  shall  feel  a  long  time;  I  do  not  wish  to  go  into  partidars 
about  that  conduct  of  yours.  You  hate  me,  that  word  is 
written  on  my  'eart  and  freeses  it  with  feer.  Alas!  it  is  at  the 
moment  when  I  have  need  of  all  my  corage  that  all  my 
facculties  abbandon  me,  Henry,  my  friend,  before  1  put  a 
barrier  between  us,  give  me  a  lastproof  of  your  esteam;  write 
me,  answer  me,  say  to  me  that  you  respect  me  still 
although  you  no  longer  love  me.  Although  my  eyes  are 
always  worthy  of  meeting  yours,  I  do  not  ask  an  intervew;  I 
fear  all  my  weakness  and  my  love.  But,  for  pitty  sake,  write 
me  a  line  at  once;  it  will  give  me  the  corage  I  need  to  meet 
my  troubles.  Farewell,  ortherof  all  my  woes,  but  the  only 
friend  that  my  heart  has  chosen  and  whom  it  will  never  forget. 

"IDA." 

This  life  of  a  young  girl  of  which  the  love  be- 
trayed, the  fatal  joys,  the  sorrows,  the  poverty, 
and  the  lamentable  resignation  were  summed  up  in 


60  FERRAGUS 

SO  few  words;  this  poem  unknown  but  essentially 
Parisian,  written  in  this  dirty  letter,  agitated  Mon- 
sieur de  Maulincour  for  a  moment;  he  ended  by 
asking  himself  if  this  Ida  might  not  be  some  rela- 
tion of  Madame  Jules,  and  if  the  evening  rendez- 
vous, of  which  he  had  been  a  witness  by  chance, 
had  not  been  occasioned  by  some  charitable  effort 
That  the  old  pauper  could  have  seduced  Ida?— This 
seduction  would  have  been  a  miracle.  Wandering  in 
the  labyrinth  of  his  reflections  which  crossed  each 
other  and  destroyed  one  another,  the  baron  arrived 
at  the  Rue  Pagevin,  and  saw  a  hackney-coach 
standing  at  the  end  of  the  Rue  des  Vieux-Augustins 
which  is  near  the  Rue  Montmartre.  All  waiting 
hackney-coaches  now  had  an  interest  for  him. 

' '  Can  she  be  there  ? "  thought  he. 

And  his  heart  beat  with  a  hot  and  feverish  throb- 
bing. He  pushed  open  the  little  door  with  the  bell, 
but  he  lowered  his  head  as  he  did  so  in  obedience 
to  a  sense  of  shame,  for  he  heard  a  secret  voice 
which  said  to  him, — "Why  do  you  put  your  foot 
into  this  mystery  ?  " 

He  went  up  a  few  steps,  and  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  the  old  portress. 

' '  Monsieur  Ferragus  ?  " 

"Don't  know  him." 

"How.?  Monsieur  Ferragus  does  not  live  here?" 

"We  don't  have  that  man  here." 

"But  my  good  woman. — " 

"1  am  not  a  good  woman,  Monsieur,  I  am  a 
concierge." 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  6l 

"  "But  Madame,"   insisted  the  baron,  "I  have  a 
letter  to  give  to  Monsieur  Ferragus. " 

"Ah!  If  Monsieur  has  a  letter,"  said  she,  chang- 
ing her  tone,  "the  thing  is  very  different  Will 
you  let  me  see  it,  your  letter? " 

Auguste  showed  the  folded  letter.  The  old  wo- 
man shook  her  head  with  a  doubtful  air,  hesitated, 
seemed  to  wish  to  leave  her  lodge  to  go  and  inform 
the  mysterious  Ferragus  of  this  unforeseen  incident; 
finally  she  said: 

"Very  well  go  up,  Monsieur,  you  ought  to  know 
where  it  is — " 

Without  replying  to  this  remark,  by  which  the 
wily  old  woman  might  have  wished  to  have  set  a 
trap  for  him,  the  officer  went  lightly  up  the  stair- 
way and  rang  loudly  at  the  door  of  the  second  floor. 
His  lover's  instinct  said  to  him, — "She  is  there." 

The  beggar  of  the  porch,  the  Ferragus  or  the 
"orther"  of  Ida's  woes,  opened  the  door  himself. 
He  appeared  in  a  flowered  dressing-gown,  panta- 
loons of  white  flannel,  his  feet  in  pretty  embroid- 
ered slippers,  and  his  head  washed  clean.  Madame 
Jules,  whose  head  appeared  beyond  the  casing  of 
the  door  into  the  next  room,  turned  pale  and  fell 
into  a  chair. 

' '  What  is  the  matter,  Madame  ?  "  cried  the  officer, 
springing  toward  her. 

But  Ferragus  stretched  forth  an  arm  and  threw 
the  officer  backward  with  so  strong  a  movement 
that  Auguste  felt  as  though  he  had  received  in  the 
chest  a  blow  from  an  iron  bar. 


62  FERRAGUS 

"Back,  Monsieur !"  said  this  man.  "What  do 
you  want  with  us?  You  have  been  roaming  about 
the  quarter  for  the  last  five  or  six  days.  Are  you 
a  spy  ? ' ' 

"Are  you  Monsieur  Ferragus?"  said  the  baron. 

"No,  Monsieur." 

"Nevertheless,"  continued  Auguste,  "it  is  to  you 
that  I  must  return  this  paper,  which  you  dropped 
under  the  doorway  of  the  house  beneath  which  we 
both  took  refuge  during  the  rain." 

While  speaking  and  in  offering  the  letter  to  this 
man,  the  baron  could  not  refrain  from  casting  an 
eye  around  the  room  in  which  Ferragus  received 
him.  He  found  it  very  well  arranged,  though  sim- 
ply. A  fire  burned  in  the  chimney-place;  near  it 
was  a  table  with  a  more  sumptuous  service  than 
seemed  consistent  with  the  apparent  condition  of 
this  man  and  the  humbleness  of  his  lodging.  And 
on  a  small  sofa  in  the  second  room,  which  he  could 
see  through  the  doorway,  he  perceived  a  heap  of 
gold,  and  heard  a  sound  which  could  be  no  other 
than  that  of  a  woman  weeping. 

"This  paper  belongs  to  me,  I  thank  you, "  said 
the  unknown,  turning  away  in  such  a  manner  as 
to  make  the  baron  understand  that  he  desired  him 
to  leave  immediately. 

Too  curious  himself  to  take  notice  of  the  profound 
examination  of  which  he  was  the  object,  Auguste 
did  not  see  the  half  magnetic  glances  by  which  the 
unknown  seemed  to  wish  to  devour  him ;  but  if  he 
had  encountered  that  basilisk  eye  he  would  have 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  63 

comprehended  the  danger  of  his  position.  Too  pas- 
sionately excited  to  thintc  of  himself,  Auguste 
bowed,  went  down  the  stairs  and  returned  home, 
endeavoring  to  find  a  meaning  in  the  connection  of 
these  three  persons, — Ida,  Ferragus  and  Madame 
Jules;  an  occupation  which  was  practically  equiva- 
lent to  that  of  trying  to  arrange  the  outlandish  bits 
of  wood  of  a  Chinese  puzzle  without  possessing  the 
key  to  the  game.  But  Madame  Jules  had  seen  him, 
Madame  Jules  went  there,  Madame  Jules  had  lied 
to  him.  Maulincour  determined  to  go  and  pay  a 
visit  to  this  woman  the  next  day,  she  could  not 
refuse  to  see  him,  he  was  now  her  accomplice,  he 
had  his  hands  and  feet  in  this  mysterious  intrigue; 
he  already  assumed  to  himself  the  power  of  a  sul- 
tan, and  thought  of  demanding  imperiously  from 
Madame  Jules  all  her  secrets. 

In  those  days  Paris  was  seized  with  the  building 
fever.  If  Paris  is  a  monster,  it  is  certainly  the 
most  maniacal  of  monsters.  It  becomes  enamored 
of  a  thousand  fancies;  sometimes  it  falls  to  build- 
ing like  a  great  seigneur  who  loves  a  trowel ;  then 
it  drops  its  trowel  and  becomes  all  military,  it 
dresses  itself  from  head  to  foot  as  a  National 
Guard,  drills  and  smokes;  then  all  at  once  it  aban- 
dons the  military  manoeuvres  and  throws  away  its 
cigar;  then  it  plunges  into  desolation,  falls  into 
bankruptcy,  sells  its  furniture  on  the  Place  du 
Chatelet,  stops  payment;  but  a  few  days  later  it 
arranges  its  affairs,  puts  itself  in  festival  array  and 
dances.     One  day  it  eats  barley-sugar  by  handfuls, 


64  FERRAGUS 

by  mouthfuls ;  yesterday  it  bought  papier  IVeynen; 
to-day,  the  monster  has  the  tooth-ache  and  applies 
an  alexipharmic  to  all  its  walls;  to-morrow  it  will 
lay  in  its  provision  of  pectoral  paste.  It  has  its 
manias  for  the  month,  for  the  season,  for  the  year, 
like  its  manias  for  a  day.  So  at  this  moment  all 
the  world  was  building  and  demolishing  something, 
we  scarcely  know  what  as  yet.  There  were  very 
few  streets  in  which  could  not  be  seen  scaffoldings 
with  long  poles,  furnished  with  planks  set  on  cross- 
pieces  and  fixed  from  floor  to  floor  in  holes  cut  in 
the  masonry, — a  frail  construction,  shaken  by  the 
Limousins,  but  held  together  by  ropes  all  white  with 
plaster,  scarcely  secured  from  the  wheels  of  carriages 
by  the  breastwork  of  planks,  that  enclosure  required 
by  law  which  is  not  built  There  is  something 
maritime  in  all  these  masts,  these  ladders,  these 
cordages  and  the  shouts  of  the  masons.  So,  now  at 
a  dozen  steps  from  the  Hotel  Maulincour,  one  of 
these  ephemeral  constructions  was  erected  before  a 
house  which  was  being  built  in  cut  stone.  The 
next  morning,  at  the  moment  when  the  Baron  de 
Maulincour  passed  in  his  cabriolet  before  this  scaf- 
folding, on  his  way  to  see  Madame  Jules,  a  stone, 
two  feet  square,  which  had  been  elevated  to  the 
topmost  landing  escaped  from  the  ropes  which  held 
it  by  turning  on  itself,  and  fell  on  the  baron's  ser- 
vant, whom  it  crushed  behind  his  carriage.  A  cry 
of  horror  shook  both  the  scaffold  and  the  masons ; 
one  of  the  latter,  in  danger  of  death,  clung  with 
difficulty  to  one  of  the  poles  and  seemed  to  have 


I 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  65 

been  injured  by  the  stone.  A  crowd  collected 
promptly.  All  the  masons  came  down,  crying, 
swearing  and  saying  that  the  cabriolet  of  Monsieur 
de  Maulincour  had  caused  the  jar  to  their  crane. 
Two  inches  more  and  the  officer  would  have  had 
his  head  crushed  by  the  stone.  The  valet  was 
dead,  the  carriage  shattered.  It  was  an  event  for 
the  whole  quarter,  the  newspapers  made  the  most 
of  it.  Monsieur  de  Maulincour,  certain  that  he  had 
not  touched  the  building,  protested.  Justice  inter- 
vened, inquest  being  made,  it  was  proved  that  a 
small  boy  armed  with  a  lath  had  mounted  guard  and 
called  to  all  foot  passengers  to  keep  away.  The 
affair  ended  there.  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  ob- 
tained nothing  for  his  servant,  for  his  fright,  and 
was  obliged  to  remain  in  his  bed  for  several  days; 
for  the  back  of  the  carriage  in  breaking  had  bruised 
him  seriously,  and  the  nervous  shock  of  the 
surprise  gave  him  a  fever.  He  did  not  go  to  see 
Madame  Jules.  Ten  days  after  this  event,  and 
when  he  first  went  out,  he  drove  to  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne  in  his  repaired  cabriolet  when,  as  he  was 
de'scending  the  Rue  de  Bourgogne  at  the  locality 
where  the  sewer  opens  directly  opposite  the  Cham- 
ber of  Deputies,  the  axle-tree  broke  sharply  in 
the  middle,  and  the  baron  was  driving  so  rapidly 
that  this  breakage  caused  the  two  wheels  to  come 
together  with  force  enough  to  break  his  head ; — but 
he  was  preserved  from  this  danger  by  the  resistance 
of  the  leathern  hood.  Nevertheless,  he  was  badly 
wounded  in  the  side.  For  the  second  time  in  ten 
5 


1 


66  FERRAGUS 

days  he  was  carried  home,  half-dead,  to  the  terri- 
fied dowager.  This  second  accident  gave  him  a 
feeling  of  distrust  and  he  thought,  though  vaguely, 
of  Ferragus  and  of  Madame  Jules.  To  clear  up  his 
suspicions,  he  kept  the  broken  axle  in  his  room 
and  sent  for  his  carriage-maker.  The  carriage- 
maker  came,  examined  the  axle,  the  fracture,  and 
proved  two  things  to  Monsieur  de  Maulincour. 
First,  the  axle  was  not  made  in  his  workshop;  he 
furnished  none  on  which  he  did  not  engrave  the 
initials  of  his  name,  and  he  could  not  explain  by 
what  means  this  axle  had  been  substituted  for  the 
other.  Secondly,  the  breakage  of  this  suspicious 
axle  had  been  caused  by  a  chamber,  a  species  of 
hollow  space,  by  blow-holes  in  the  metal  and  by 
flaws,  very  skilfully  managed. 

"Eh!  Monsieur  le  Baron,  whoever  did  that  was 
mighty  malicious,"  said  he,  "to  fix  up  an  axle-tree 
that  way,  any  one  would  swear  to  look  at  it  that 
the  axle  v/as  sound — " 

Monsieur  de  Maulincour  requested  his  carriage- 
maker  to  say  nothing  of  this  affair,  and  he  consid- 
ered himself  duly  warned.  These  two  attempts  at 
assassination  had  been  planned  with  an  ability 
which  denoted  the  enmity  of  intelligent  minds. 

"It  is  war  to  the  death,"  he  said  to  himself  as 
he  turned  in  his  bed,  "a  war  of  savages,  a  war  of 
surprises,  of  ambuscades,  of  treachery,  declared  in 
the  name  of  Madame  Jules.  To  what  sort  of  man 
does  she  then  belong?  What  kind  of  power  does 
this  Ferragus  then  wield.?  " 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  67 

In  fact  Monsieur  de  Maulincour,  though  a  soldier 
and  a  brave  man,  could  not  repress  a  shudder.  In 
the  midst  of  the  many  thoughts  which  now  assailed 
him  there  was  one  against  which  he  felt  he  had 
neither  defense  nor  courage:  would  not  poison  be 
ere  long  employed  by  his  secret  enemies?  Under 
the  influence  of  these  fears,  which  his  momentary 
weakness,  his  fever,  and  the  low  diet  increased 
still  more,  he  sent  for  an  old  woman  long  attached 
to  the  service  of  his  grandmother,  a  woman  who 
had  for  him  one  of  those  semi-maternal  affections, 
the  sublime  or  the  commonplace.  Without  confid- 
ing in  her  wholly,  he  charged  her  to  buy  secretly 
and  daily  in  different  localities  the  food  he  needed, 
directing  her  to  keep  it  under  lock  and  key  and  to 
bring  it  to  him  herself,  not  allowing  anyone,  no 
matter  who,  to  approach  her  while  preparing  it.  In 
short,  he  took  the  most  minute  precautions  to  pro- 
tect himself  against  that  form  of  death.  He  was 
confined  to  his  bed,  alone  and  ill ;  he  had  therefore 
the  leisure  to  think  of  his  own  security,  the  only 
necessity  sufficiently  clear-sighted  to  enable  human 
egotism  to  forget  nothing.  But  the  unfortunate  in- 
valid had  poisoned  his  own  life  by  this  dread;  and, 
in  spite  of  himself,  suspicion  dyed  all  his  hours 
with  its  gloomy  tints.  These  two  lessons  of  assas- 
sination did,  however,  instruct  him  in  one  of  the 
virtues  most  necessary  to  politic  men,  he  under- 
stood the  wise  dissimulation  that  must  be  practiced 
in  dealing  with  the  great  interests  of  life.  To  be 
silent  about  our  own  secrets  is  nothing ;  but  to  be 


68  FERRAGUS 

silent  from  the  first,  to  know  how  to  forget  a  fact 
for  thirty  years,  if  it  is  necessary,  as  did  Ali  Pacha, 
in  order  to  be  sure  of  a  vengeance  meditated  for 
thirty  years, — this  is  a  fine  study  in  a  country  in 
which  there  are  but  few  men  who  know  how  to 
keep  their  own  counsel  for  thirty  days.  Monsieur 
de  Maulincour  no  longer  lived  but  through  Madame 
Jules.  He  was  perpetually  occupied  in  examining 
seriously  the  means  which  he  could  employ  in  this 
mysterious  struggle  to  triumph  over  the  mysterious 
adversaries.  His  secret  passion  for  that  woman 
grew  by  reason  of  all  these  obstacles.  Madame 
Jules  was  ever  there,  erect,  in  the  midst  of  his 
thoughts,  in  the  centre  of  his  heart,  more  attractive 
now  by  reason  of  her  presumable  vices  than  by  the 
certain  virtues  which  had  constituted  her  his  idol. 

The  sick  man,  wishing  to  reconnoitre  the  posi- 
tions of  the  enemy,  thought  he  might  without  dan- 
ger initiate  the  old  vidame  into  the  secrets  of  his 
situation.  The  old  commander  loved  Auguste  as  a 
father  loves  his  wife's  children ;  he  was  shrewd, 
dexterous ;  he  had  a  diplomatic  intelligence.  He  lis- 
tened to  the  baron,  shook  his  head,  and  they  both 
held  counsel.  The  worthy  vidame  did  not  share 
his  young  friend's  confidence,  when  Auguste  said 
to  him  that  in  the  times  in  which  they  now  lived 
the  police  and  the  government  were  able  to  decipher 
all  mysteries,  and  that  if  it  were  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  have  recourse  to  these  powers  he  would  find 
in  them  most  powerful  auxiliaries. 

The  old  man  replied: 


1 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  69 

"The  police,  my  dear  boy,  is  the  most  incompe- 
tent thing  in  the  world,  and  the  government  is 
the  most  feeble  of  all  in  matters  concerning  in- 
dividuals. Neither  the  police  nor  the  government 
can  read  hearts.  That  which  might  be  reasonably 
asked  of  them  is  to  search  for  the  causes  of  an  act 
Now,  the  government  and  the  police  are  eminently 
unfitted  for  this  task;  they  lack  essentially  that  '*p 
personal  interest  which  reveals  all  to  him  who  has  {' 
need  of  knowing  all.  No  human  power  can  prevent 
an  assassin  or  a  poisoner  from  reaching  either  the 
heart  of  a  prince  or  the  stomach  of  an  honest  man. 
The  passions  make  the  best  police." 

The  commander  strongly  advised  the  baron  to 
set  out  for  Italy,  to  go  from  Italy  to  Greece,  from 
Greece  to  Syria,  from  Syria  into  Asia,  and  not  to 
return  until  after  he  had  succeeded  in  convincing 
his  secret  enemies  of  his  repentance,  and  by  so 
doing  make  tacitly  his  peace  with  them;  if  not,  to 
remain  in  his  house  and  even  in  his  own  room 
where  he  would  be  safe  from  the  attempts  of  this 
Ferragus,  and  not  to  leave  it  until  he  could  crush 
him  in  perfect  safety.  "An  enemy  should  never 
be  touched  except  to  crush  his  head,"  said  he 
gravely. 

Nevertheless,  the  old  man  promised  his  favorite 
to  employ  all  the  astuteness  with  which  Heaven  had 
provided  him  in  order  to,  without  compromising 
anyone,  reconnoitre  the  enemy's  ground,  examine 
his  strength,  and  pave  the  way  for  victory.  The 
commander  had  in  his  service  an  old  retired  Figaro, 


70  FERRAGUS 

the  wildest  monkey  that  ever  assumed  a  human 
form,  formerly  as  clever  as  a  devil,  capable  bodily 
as  a  galley-slave,  alert  as  a  thief,  sly  as  a  woman, 
but  now  fallen  into  the  decadence  of  genius  for 
want  of  practice  since  the  new  constitution  of 
Parisian  society  which  has  reformed  even  the 
valets  of  comedy.  This  Scapin-Emeritus  was  at- 
tached to  his  master  as  to  a  superior  being;  but  the 
shrewd  old  vidame  added  a  good  round  sum  yearly 
to  the  wages  of  his  former  provost  of  gallantry, 
a  little  attention  which  strengthened  the  ties  of 
natural  affection  by  the  bonds  of  self-interest,  and 
procured  for  the  old  gentleman  a  care  which  the 
most  loving  mistress  would  not  have  been  able  to 
discover  for  her  sick  friend.  It  was  this  pearl  of 
the  old-fashioned  comedy  valets,  relic  of  the  last 
century,  and  auxiliary  incorruptible  from  lack  of 
passions  to  satisfy,  in  whom  the  commander  and 
Monsieur  de  Maulincour  now  put  their  trust. 

"Monsieur  le  Baron  will  spoil  all,"  said  this 
great  man  in  livery  when  called  into  counsel. 
"Let  Monsieur  eat,  drink  and  sleep  in  peace.  I 
take  the  whole  matter  upon  myself." 

hi  fact,  eight  days  after  the  conference,  when 
Monsieur  de  Maulincour,  perfectly  recovered  from 
his  indisposition,  was  breakfasting  with  his  grand- 
mother and  the  vidame,  Justin  entered  to  make  his 
report.  As  soon  as  the  dowager  had  returned  to 
her  own  apartments,  he  said  with  that  mock  mod- 
esty which  men  of  talent  affect: 

"Ferragus  is  not  the  name  of  the  enemy  who 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  7 1 

is  pursuing  Monsieur  !e  Baron.  This  man,  this 
devil,  is  called  the  Sieur  Gratien-Henri-Victor- 
Jean- Joseph  Bourignard.  The  Sieur  Gratien  Bou- 
rignard  is  a  former  master-builder,  once  very  rich 
and  above  all  one  of  the  handsomest  men  of  his  day 
in  Paris,  a  Lovelace  capable  of  seducing  Grandison. 
My  information  stops  there.  He  has  been  a  simple 
workman,  and  the  companions  of  the  Order  of  the 
Devorants  at  one  time  elected  him  for  their  chief 
under  the  title  of  Ferragus  XXIII.  The  police  ought 
to  know  that,  if  the  police  were  instituted  to  know 
anything.  This  man  has  moved,  no  longer  lives  in 
the  Rue  des  Vieux-Augustins,  and  roosts  now  in 
the  Rue  Joquelet;  Madame  Jules  Desmarets  goes  to 
see  him  frequently ;  often  enough  her  husband,  on 
his  way  to  the  Bourse,  drives  her  as  far  as  the  Rue 
Vivienne,  or  she  drives  her  husband  to  the  Bourse. 
Monsieur  le  Vidame  knows  too  much  about  these 
things  to  require  me  to  tell  him  if  it  is  the  husband 
who  takes  the  wife,  or  the  wife  who  takes  her  hus- 
band; but  Madame  Jules  is  so  pretty  that  I  will  bet 
on  her.  All  this  is  positively  certain.  My  Bou- 
rignard often  plays  at  Number  129.  Saving  your 
presence,  Monsieur,  he  is  a  rogue  who  loves  the  wo- 
men, and  he  has  his  little  ways  like  a  man  of  condi- 
tion. As  for  the  rest,  he  often  wins,  disguises  him- 
self like  an  actor,  makes  himself  as  old  as  he  likes, 
and  in  short  leads  the  most  original  life  in  the 
world.  I  don't  doubt  that  he  has  a  good  many 
lodgings,  for  most  of  the  time  he  manages  to 
evade  what  Monsieur  le  Vidame  calls  Parliamentary 


72  FERRAGUS 

investigation.  If  Monsieur  wishes,  he  could  never- 
theless be  disposed  of  honorably,  seeing  what  his 
habits  are.  It  is  always  easy  to  get  rid  of  a  man 
who  loves  women.  However  this  capitalist  talks 
about  moving  again. — Now,  have  Monsieur  le 
Vidame  and  Monsieur  le  Baron  any  other  commands 
to  give  me?" 

"Justin,  I  am  satisfied  with  you,  don't  go  any 
farther  in  the  matter  without  orders;  but  keep  a 
close  watch  here  so  that  Monsieur  le  Baron  may 
have  nothing  to  fear. — My  dear  boy,"  resumed  the 
vidame,  addressing  Maulincour,  "go  back  to  your 
old  life  and  forget  Madame  Jules." 

"No,  no,"  said  Auguste,  "I  will  not  yield  to 
Gratien  Bourignard,  1  will  have  him  bound  hand 
and  foot  and  Madame  Jules  also." 

That  evening,  the  Baron  Auguste  de  Maulincour, 
recently  promoted  to  a  higher  rank  in  a  company  of 
the  Gardes  du  Corps,  went  to  a  ball  at  the  Elysee- 
Bourbon,  given  by  Madame  la  Duchesse  de  Berri. 
There,  certainly,    no   danger   could   lurk  for   him. 
The  Baron  de  Maulincour  when   he  came  out  had, 
nevertheless,  an   affair  of  honor  on  his  hands,  an 
affair  which  it  was  impossible  to  arrange  amicably. 
His  adversary,  the  Marquis  de   Ronquerolles,  had 
the  strongest  reasons  for    being  dissatisfied   with 
Auguste,  and  Auguste  had  given  him  cause  by  his 
former  liaison  with  the  sister  of  Monsieur  de  Ron- 
querolles, the  Comtesse  de  Serizy.     This  lady,  who 
did  not  love  German  sentimentality,  was  all  the 
more  exacting  in  the  least  details   of   matters  of 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  73 

prudery.  By  one  of  those  inexplicable  fatalities, 
Auguste  uttered  a  harmless  jest  which  Madame  de 
Serizy  took  amiss,  and  which  her  brother  resented. 
The  discussion  took  place  in  a  corner,  with  lowered 
voices.  In  good  society,  the  two  adversaries  never 
make  any  disturbance.  The  very  next  day,  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Honore,  the  Faubourg  Saint-Ger- 
main and  the  Chateau  discussed  this  affair.  Madame 
de  Serizy  was  warmly  defended,  and  all  the  blame 
was  laid  on  Maulincour.  August  personages  inter- 
vened. Seconds  of  the  highest  distinction  were 
imposed  on  Messieurs  de  Maulincour  and  de  Ron- 
querolles,  and  every  precaution  was  taken  on  the 
ground  that  no  one  should  be  killed.  When  Auguste 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  his  adversary,  a 
man  of  pleasure,  to  whom  no  one  could  possibly 
deny  honorable  sentiments,  he  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  see  in  him  the  instrument  of  Ferragus,  Chief 
of  the  Devorants,  but  he  was  compelled  by  a  secret 
power  to  obey  an  inexplicable  presentiment  in  ques- 
tioning the  Marquis. 

"Messieurs,"  he  said  to  the  seconds,  "I  certainly 
do  not  refuse  to  meet  the  fire  of  Monsieur  de  Ron- 
querolles;  but  before  doing  so  I  here  declare  that  I 
was  in  error,  I  offer  to  him  whatever  excuses  he 
may  require  of  me,  publicly  even,  if  he  wishes  it, 
because  when  the  matter  concerns  a  woman  nothing 
I  think  can  degrade  a  man  of  honor.  I  therefore 
appeal  to  his  generosity  and  his  good  sense;  is 
there  not  something  rather  silly  in  fighting  when 
the  rightful  cause  may  losei* — " 


74  FERRAGUS 

Monsieur  de  Ronquerolles  would  not  admit  that 
the  affair  could  be  finished  in  this  manner,  and 
then  the  baron,  his  suspicions  strengthened,  ap- 
proached his  adversary. 

"Well,  then.  Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  he  said, 
"pledge  me,  before  these  gentlemen,  your  word  as  a 
gentleman  that  you  do  not  bring  into  this  meeting 
any  other  reason  for  vengeance  than  that  which  is 
made  public? " 

"Monsieur,  that  is  no  question  to  ask  me." 

And  Monsieur  de  Ronquerolles  took  his  place. 
It  was  agreed  in  advance  that  the  two  adversaries 
were  to  be  satisfied  with  one  exchange  of  shots. 
Monsieur  de  Ronquerolles,  in  spite  of  the  distance 
determined  by  the  seconds,  which  seemed  to  make 
the  death  of  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  very  prob- 
lematical, not  to  say  impossible,  brought  down  the 
baron.  The  ball  traversed  the  latter's  body,  two 
fingers'  breadth  below  the  heart,  but  fortunately 
without  fatal  injury. 

"You  aim  too  well.  Monsieur,"  said  the  ofificer  of 
the  Guards,"  to  be  avenging  only  dead  quarrels." 

Monsieur  de  Ronquerolles  believed  Auguste  to  be 
a  dead  man,  and  he  could  not  refrain  from  smiling 
sardonically  as  he  heard  these  words. 

"The  sister  of  Julius  C^sar,  Monsieur,  should 
not  be  suspected." 

"Always  Madame  Jules,"  replied  Auguste. 

He  fainted,  without  being  able  to  utter  a  biting 
jest  which  expired  on  his  lips;  but  although  he  lost 
a  great  deal  of  blood,  his  wound  was  not  dangerous. 


CHIEF  OF  THE   DEVORANTS  75 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  during  which  the  dowager 
and  the  vidame  lavished  upon  him  those  cares  of 
old  age  the  secret  of  which  can  be  given  only  by 
long  experience  in  life,  his  grandmother,  one  morn- 
ing, dealt  him  a  heavy  stroke.  She  revealed  to 
him  the  mortal  anxieties  which  were  oppressing  her 
old,  her  last  days.  She  had  received  a  letter, 
signed  "F, "  in  which  the  history  of  the  secret 
espionage  to  which  her  grandson  had  lowered  him- 
self, was  recounted  step  by  step.  In  this  letter, 
actions  unworthy  of  an  honorable  man  were 
ascribed  to  Monsieur  de  Maulincour.  He  had,  it 
said,  placed  an  old  woman  at  the  stand  of  hackney- 
coaches  in  the  Rue  de  Menars,  an  old  spy,  who  pre- 
tended to  sell  water  from  her  cask  to  the  coachmen, 
but  who  was  really  there  to  watch  the  actions  of 
Madame  Jules  Desmarets.  He  had  spied  upon  the 
most  inoffensive  man  in  the  world  in  order  to  detect 
his  secrets,  when  on  these  secrets  depended  the  life 
or  the  death  of  three  persons.  He  had  brought  upon 
himself  a  relentless  struggle,  in  which,  already 
wounded  three  times,  he  would  inevitably  succumb 
because  his  death  had  been  sworn  and  would  be 
sought  by  all  human  means.  Monsieur  de  Maulin- 
cour could  no  longer  even  avoid  his  fate  by  promis- 
ing to  respect  the  mysterious  life  of  these  three 
persons,  because  it  was  impossible  to  believe  in  the 
word  of  a  gentleman  capable  of  descending  to  the 
level  of  a  police-spy;  and  for  what  reason.?  to  trou- 
ble without  cause  the  life  of  an  innocent  woman 
and  of  a  harmless  old  man.     The  letter  itself  was 


76  FERRAGUS 

as  nothing  for  Auguste  in  comparison  with  the  ten- 
der reproaches  with  which  the  old  Baroness  de 
MaulincoLir  overwhelmed  him.  To  betray  a  want 
of  respect  for  and  confidence  in  a  woman,  to  spy 
upon  her  actions  without  having  any  right  to  do  so  ! 
And  ought  a  man  ever  to  spy  upon  the  woman  by 
whom  he  is  loved?  It  was  a  tirade  of  excellent  rea- 
sons which  never  prove  anything,  and  which,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  threw  the  young  baron  into  one 
of  those  great  human  furies  in  which  are  born,  and 
from  which  issue,  the  most  important  actions  of  life. 

"Since  this  duel  is  one  to  the  death,"  said  he  in 
conclusion,  "I  shall  have  to  kill  my  enemy  by  all 
the  means  which  I  may  have  at  my  disposal." 

The  old  commander  went  immediately  to  inter- 
view in  the  name  of  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  the 
chief  of  the  secret  police  of  Paris  and,  without 
bringing  either  the  name  or  the  person  of  Madame 
Jules  into  the  narrative,  although  she  was  in 
reality  the  secret  spring  of  it  all,  he  made  him 
aware  of  the  fears  which  had  been  inspired  in  the 
family  of  de  Maulincour  by  the  unknown  person 
who  was  bold  enough  to  swear  the  death  of  an  officer 
of  the  Guard,  in  defiance  of  the  laws  and  the  police. 
The  police  oificial  pushed  up  his  green  spectacles 
in  amazement,  blew  his  nose  several  times,  offered 
snuff  to  the  vidame,  who  for  the  sake  of  his  dignity 
pretended  not  to  use  snuff,  although  his  own  nose 
was  lined  with  it.  Then  the  chief  took  notes,  and 
promised,  Vidocq  and  his  bloodhounds  aiding,  that 
he  would  render  a  very  good  account  to  the  family 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  ^^ 

de  Maulincour  of  this  enemy  in  a  few  days,  saying 
that  there  were  no  mysteries  for  the  police  of  Paris. 
A  few  days  after  this  the  chief  came  to  see  Mon- 
sieur le  Vidame  at  the  Hotel  Maulincour,  and  found 
the  young  baron  completely  recovered  from  his  last 
wounds.  Then  he  conveyed  to  them,  in  bureau- 
cratic style,  his  thanks  for  the  indications  which 
they  had  had  the  goodness  to  give  him  and  informed 
them  that  this  Bourignard  was  a  convict,  con- 
demned to  twenty  years'  hard  labor,  but  who  had 
miraculously  escaped  from  a  gang  which  was  being 
transported  from  Bicetre  to  Toulon.  For  thirteen 
years  the  police  had  been  vainly  endeavoring  to 
recapture  him,  after  having  become  aware  that  he 
had  returned  with  the  greatest  hardihood  to  live  in 
Paris,  where  he  had  been  able  to  escape  the  most  ac- 
tive search,  although  he  was  constantly  implicated  in 
many  dark  intrigues.  However,  this  man,  whose 
life  offered  the  most  curious  details,  would  certainly 
be  seized  in  one  or  other  of  his  several  domiciles 
and  delivered  up  to  justice.  The  bureaucrat  termi- 
nated his  official  report  by  saying  to  Monsieur  de 
Maulincour  that  if  he  attached  enough  importance 
to  this  affair  to  wish  to  witness  the  capture  of  Bou- 
rignard he  might  come  the  next  day,  at  eight  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  to  a  house  in  the  Rue  Sainte-Foi  of 
which  he  gave  him  the  number.  Monsieur  de  Mau- 
lincour dispensed  with  going  in  search  of  this  cer- 
tainty, trusting,  with  the  sacred  respect  inspired  by 
the  police  of  Paris,  to  the  promptness  of  the  author- 
ities.    Three  days  later,   having  read  nothing  in 


78  FERRAGUS 

the  newspapers  concerning  this  arrest,  which,  how- 
ever, should  have  furnished  matter  for  a  curious 
article.  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  was  beginning  to 
feel  certain  anxieties,  which  were  dissipated  by  the 
following  letter: 


"to 


•'MONSIEUR  LE  BARON, 

"I  have  the  honor  to  announce  to  you  that  you  need  have 
no  further  fear  touching  the  affair  in  question.  The  man 
named  Gratien  Bourignard,  otherwise  called  Ferragus,  died 
yesterday  at  his  lodgings,  Rue  Joquelet,  No.  7.  Those  sus- 
picions which  we  naturally  conceived  as  to  his  identity  have 
been  completely  set  at  rest  by  the  facts.  The  physician  of 
the  Prefecture  of  Police  was  detailed  by  us  to  assist  the  phy- 
sician of  the  Mayor's  office,  and  the  chief  of  the  detective 
police  made  all  the  necessary  verifications  to  obtain  absolute 
certainty.  Moreover,  the  high  character  of  the  witnesses 
who  signed  the  certificate  of  death,  and  the  affidavits  of  those 
who  took  care  of  the  said  Bourignard  in  his  last  moments, 
among  others  that  of  the  worthy  Vicar  of  the  church  of  the 
Bonne-Nouvelle,  to  whom  he  made  his  last  confession,  for  he 
died  a  Christian,  do  not  permit  us  to  entertain  the  least 

doubts. 

"Accept,  Monsieur  le  Baron,  etc." 

Monsieur  de  Maulincour,  the  dowager  and  the 
vidame  breathed  again,  with  an  unspeakable  pleas- 
ure. The  good  old  woman  embraced  her  grandson, 
shedding  a  tear  and  left  him  to  thank  God  in  prayer. 
The  dear  old  dowager,  who  was  making  a  novena 
for  Auguste's  safety,  believed  her  prayers  were 
answered. 

"Well,"  said  the  old  commander,  "now  you  can 
go  to  the  ball  of  which  you  were  speaking  to  me,  I 
have  no  longer  any  objections  to  offer." 


* 

Monsieur  de  Maulincour  was  all  the  more  eager 
to  go  to  this  ball  because  Madame  Jules  would  be 
there.  This  fete  was  given  by  the  Prefect  of  the 
Seine,  in  whose  salon  the  two  social  worlds  of 
Paris  met  as  on  neutral  ground.  Auguste  traversed 
the  rooms  without  seeing  the  woman  who  exercised 
so  great  an  influence  on  his  life.  He  entered  a  bou- 
doir as  yet  deserted,  where  the  card  tables  were 
waiting  for  the  players,  and  he  seated  himself  on  a 
divan,  giving  himself  up  to  the  most  contradictory 
thoughts  of  Madame  Jules.  A  man  suddenly  took 
the  young  officer  by  the  arm  and  the  baron  was  stu- 
pefied to  see  the  pauper  of  the  Rue  Coquilli^re, 
the  Ferragus  of  Ida,  the  lodger  in  the  Rue  Soly, 
the  Bourignard  of  Justin,  the  convict  of  the  police, 
the  dead  man  of  the  day  before. 

"Monsieur,  not  a  cry,  not  a  word,"  said  Bourig- 
nard, whose  voice  he  recognized,  although  it  cer- 
tainly would  have  seemed  unknown  to  any  other. 

He  was  elegantly  dressed,  wore  the  order  of  the 
Golden  Fleece  and  a  decoration  on  his  coat. 

"Monsieur,"  he  resumed  in  a  voice  which  was 
sibilant  like  that  of  a  hyena,  "you  authorize  all  my 
efforts  against  you  by  calling  the  police  to  your  aid. 
You  will  perish.  Monsieur.  It  is  necessary.  Do 
you  love  Madame  Jules  ?    Are  you  beloved  of  her  ? 

(79) 


8o  FERRAGUS 

By  what  right  do  you  trouble  her  peaceful  life  and 
blacken  her  virtue  ? ' ' 

Someone  entered  the  room.     Ferragus  rose  to  go. 

"Do  you  know  this  man.?"  asked  Monsieur  de 
Maulincour,  seizing  Ferragus  by  the  collar. 

But  Ferragus  quickly  disengaged  himself,  took 
Monsieur  de  Maulincour  by  the  hair  and  shook  him 
scoffmgly  by  the  head  several  times. 

"Must  you  absolutely  have  lead  in  it  to  render 
it  wise.'"'  said  he. 

"Not  personally,  Monsieur, "  replied  de  Marsay, 
the  witness  of  this  scene;  "but  I  know  that  he  is 
Monsieur  de  Funcal,  a  very  rich  Portuguese." 

Monsieur  de  Funcal  had  disappeared.  The  baron 
followed  in  pursuit  without  being  able  to  overtake 
him,  and  when  he  reached  the  peristyle  he  saw 
Ferragus,  who  regarded  him  with  a  jeering  laugh 
from  a  brilliant  equipage,  which  was  driven  away 
at  high  speed. 

"Monsieur,  if  you  please,"  said  Auguste,  re- 
entering the  salon  and  addressing  de  Marsay,  whom 
he  knew,  "where  does  Monsieur  de  Funcal  live?" 

"I  do  not  know,  but  someone  here  can  no  doubt 
inform  you." 

The  baron,  having  questioned  the  Prefect,  ascer- 
tained that  the  Comte  de  Funcal  lived  at  the  Portu- 
guese Embassy.  At  this  moment,  while  he  still  felt 
the  icy  finger  of  Ferragus  in  his  hair,  he  saw 
Madame  Jules  in  all  her  dazzling  beauty,  fresh, 
gracious,  artless,  resplendent  with  that  womanly 
sanctity  which  had  won  his  love.     This  creature, 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  8 1 

infernal  to  him,  no  longer  excited  in  his  soul  any 
emotion  but  hatred,  and  this  hatred  overflowed, 
bloody,  terrible,  in  his  eyes;  he  watched  for  the 
moment  when  he  could  speak  to  her  without  being 
overheard  by  anyone,  and  then  said  to  her: 

"Madame,  here  are  already  three  times  that  your 
bravi  have  missed  me — " 

"What  can  you  mean.  Monsieur  ?"  she  replied 
reddening.  "I  know  that  several  unfortunate  acci- 
dents have  happened  to  you,  which  I  have  greatly 
regretted;  but  how  could  1  have  had  anything  to  do 
with  them?" 

"You  knew  then  that  there  were  bravi  sent 
against  me  by  the  man  of  the  Rue  Soly  ? " 

"Monsieur! " 

"Madame,  now  I  will  not  be  alone  in  calling  you 
to  account,  not  for  my  happiness,  but  for  my 
blood—" 

At  this  moment  Jules  Desmarets  approached. 

"What  are  you  saying  to  my  wife.  Monsieur?  " 

"Come  to  enquire  at  my  house  if  you  are  curious. 
Monsieur." 

And  Maulincour  went  out,  leaving  Madame  Jules 
pale  and  almost  fainting. 

There  are  very  few  women  indeed  who  have  not 
found  themselves,  at  least  once  in  their  lives, 
apropos  of  some  undeniable  fact,  confronted  with  a 
direct,  sharp  uncompromising  interrogation,  one  of 
those  questions  pitilessly  asked  by  their  husbands 
and  of  which  the  apprehension  alone  gives  a  chill, 
of  which  the  very  first  word  enters  the  heart  like 
6 


1 


V 


82  FERRAGUS 

the  steel  of  a  dagger.  Hence  this  maxim,  "All 
women  lie."  Officious  falsehood,  venial  falsehood, 
sublime  falsehood,  horrible  falsehood, — but  always 
the  obligation  to  lie.  This  obligation  once  ad- 
mitted, is  it  not  necessary  to  know  how  to  lie  well.? 
French  women  do  it  admirably.  Our  customs  so 
readily  teach  them  deception !  And  then,  woman 
is  so  naively  impertinent,  so  pretty,  so  graceful,  so 
truthful  in  her  lying;  she  recognizes  so  fully  the 
utility  of  it  in  order  to  avoid,  in  social  life,  the 
violent  shocks  which  happiness  might  not  be  able 
to  resist  that  it  is  as  necessary  to  her  as  the  cotton- 
wool in  which  she  puts  away  her  jewels.  False- 
hood becomes  for  women,  thus,  the  foundation  of 
speech,  and  truth  is  only  an  exception ;  they  use  it, 
just  as  they  are  virtuous,  through  caprice  or  by  cal- 
culation. Moreover,  according  to  their  individual 
character,  some  women  laugh  in  lying,  some 
others  weep,  these  become  grave,  those  grow  angry. 
After  beginning  life  by  feigning  indifference  to  the 
homage  that  flatters  them  the  most,  they  often  end 
by  lying  to  themselves.  Who  has  not  admired  their 
apparent  superiority  to  everything  at  the  very 
moment  when  they  are  trembling  for  the  mysterious 
treasures  of  their  love?  Who  has  never  studied  their 
ease,  their  facility,  their  freedom  of  spirit  in  the 
greatest  embarrassments  of  life?  With  them,  noth- 
ing is  borrowed;  deception  flows  as  easily  as  the 
snow  falls  from  the  sky.  Then  with  what  art  do 
they  discover  the  truth  in  others !  With  what  clev- 
erness do  they  employ  the   most  direct   logic    in 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  83 

answer  to  some  passionate  question  which  has 
revealed  to  them  the  secret  of  the  heart  of  a  man 
who  is  guileless  enough  to  proceed  by  questioning 
them !  To  question  a  woman,  is  not  that  to  deliver 
one's  self  up  to  her?  Will  she  not  learn  all  which 
we  seek  to  hide  from  her,  and  will  she  not  know 
how  to  be  silent  in  speaking?  And  some  men  have 
the  pretension  of  being  able  to  struggle  with  a  Par- 
isian woman!  With  a  woman  who  knows  how 
to  hold  herself  above  all  dagger-thrusts,  saying, — 
"You  are  very  inquisitive!  What  does  it  matter  to 
you  ?  Why  do  you  wish  to  know?  Ah  !  you  are 
jealous!  And  suppose  I  do  not  choose  to  answer 
you  ?  " — in  short,  with  a  woman  who  possesses  the 
hundred  and  thirty-seven  thousand  manners  of  say- 
ing "No,"  and  incommensurable  variations  of  the 
word,  "YES."  The  treatise  on  the  "Yes"  and  the 
"No,"  is  it  not  one  of  the  finest  works,  diplomatic, 
philosophic,  logographic  and  moral,  which  still 
remains  for  us  to  write?  But  to  accomplish  this 
diabolic  work,  will  not  an  androgynous  genius  be 
necessary?  For  that  reason,  probably,  it  will  never 
be  attempted.  Besides,  of  all  unpublished  works, 
is  not  that  the  best  known  and  the  best  practiced 
among  women?  Have  you  ever  studied  the  be- 
havior, the  pose,  the  disinvoltura  of  a  falsehood  ? 
Examine  it  Madame  Desmarets  was  seated  in  the 
right  hand  corner  of  her  carriage,  and  her  husband 
in  the  left  corner.  Having  forced  herself  to  recover 
from  her  emotion  in  coming  out  of  the  ball-room, 
Madame  Jules  now  affected  a  calm  demeanor.     Her 


84  FERRAGUS 

husband  had  said  nothing  to  her,  and  he  still  said 
nothing.  Jules  looked  out  of  the  carriage  window 
at  the  black  walls  of  the  silent  houses  before  which 
he  passed ;  but  suddenly,  as  if  driven  by  a  deter- 
mining thought,  in  turning  the  corner  of  a  street 
he  examined  his  wife  who  appeared  to  be  cold  in 
spite  of  the  fur-lined  pelisse  in  which  she  was 
wrapped ;  he  thought  she  seemed  pensive,  and  per- 
haps she  really  was  pensive.  Of  all  those  things 
which  are  communicable,  reflection  and  gravity  are 
the  most  contagious. 

"What  was  it,  that  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  said 
to  you  that  could  affect  you  so  keenly.-"'  said 
Jules;  "and  why  does  he  wish  me  to  go  to  his 
house  and  find  out  ? " 

"He  can  tell  you  nothing  in  his  house  that  I  can- 
not tell  you  here,"  she  replied. 

Then,  with  that  feminine  craft  which  always 
slightly  degrades  virtue,  Madame  Jules  waited  for 
another  question.  Her  husband  turned  his  face  to 
the  houses  again  and  continued  his  study  of  the 
porte-cocheres.  Another  question,  would  it  not  be 
a  suspicion,  a  distrust.''  To  suspect  a  woman  is 
crime  in  love;  Jules  had  already  killed  a  man  with- 
out having  doubted  his  wife.  Clemence  did  not 
know  all  there  was  of  true  passion,  of  deep  reflec- 
tion, in  her  husband's  silence,  just  as  Jules  was 
ignorant  of  the  wonderful  drama  that  was  wringing 
the  heart  of  his  Clemence.  And  the  carriage  rolled 
on  through  a  silent  Paris,  bearing  two  lovers  who 
adored  each  other,  and  who,  softly  reclining  on  the 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  85 

same  silken  cushions,  were  nevertheless  separated 
by  an  abyss.  In  these  elegant  coupes  returning 
from  a  ball  between  midnight  and  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  how  many  curious  and  singular 
scenes  must  pass, — restricting  ourselves  only  to 
those  coupes  whose  lanterns  light  both  the  street 
and  the  carriage,  those  with  their  windows  un- 
shaded, in  short  the  coupes  of  legitimate  love,  in 
which  the  couples  can  quarrel  without  fearing  to 
be  seen  by  the  passers-by,  because  the  civil  code 
gives  the  right  to  provoke,  to  beat,  or  to  kiss  a 
wife  in  a  carriage  or  elsewhere,  anywhere,  every- 
where !  How  many  secrets  must  be  thus  revealed 
to  nocturnal  pedestrians,  to  those  young  men  who 
have  gone  to  a  ball  in  a  carriage,  but  are  obliged, 
for  whatever  cause  it  may  be,  to  return  on  foot.  It 
was  the  first  time  that  Jules  and  Clemence  had 
found  themselves  thus,  each  in  a  corner.  Usually 
the  husband  pressed  close  to  his  wife. 

"It  is  very  cold,"  said  Madame  Jules. 

But  her  husband  did  not  hear  her.  He  was  study- 
ing all  the  black  signs  above  the  shop  windows. 

"Clemence,"  he  said  at  last.  "Forgive  me  the 
question  I  am  about  to  ask  you." 

He  came  closer,  took  her  by  the  waist  and  drew 
her  towards  him. 

"My  God!  it  is  coming!"  thought  the  poor  wo- 
man. 

"Well,"  she  said  aloud,  anticipating  the  ques- 
tion, "you  wish  to  learn  what  Monsieur  Maulincour 
said  to  me.     1  will  tell  you  Jules,  but  not  without 


86  FERRAGUS 

terror.  Mon  Dieii,  is  it  possible  that  we  should 
have  secrets  from  each  other  ?  For  the  last  few 
moments  I  have  seen  you  struggling  between  your 
conviction  of  our  love  and  vague  fears;  but  that 
conviction  is  clear  within  us,  is  it  not,  and  your 
suspicions,  do  they  not  seem  to  you  dark  and  un- 
natural? Why  not  remain  in  that  clear  light  of 
confidence  which  pleases  you?  When  I  have  told 
you  all,  you  will  still  desire  to  know  more;  and  yet 
I  myself  do  not  know  what  was  hidden  beneath  the 
extraordinary  words  of  that  man.  And  what  I  fear 
is,  that  this  may  lead  to  some  fatal  affair  between 
you.  I  would  much  prefer  that  we  both  forget  this 
unpleasant  moment.  But  in  any  case,  swear  to 
me  that  you  will  let  this  singular  adventure  explain 
itself  naturally.  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  declared 
to  me  that  the  three  accidents  of  which  you  have 
heard, —the  falling  of  a  stone  on  his  servant,  the 
breaking  down  of  his  cabriolet,  and  his  duel  about 
Madame  de  Serizy — were  the  result  of  some  plot  I 
had  laid  against  him.  Then  he  threatened  to  reveal 
to  you  the  notion  which  inclined  me  to  assassinate 
him.  Can  you  imagine  what  all  this  means?  My 
emotion  came  from  the  impression  produced  upon 
me  by  the  sight  of  his  face  expressive  of  insanity, 
his  haggard  eyes  and  his  words  broken  by  some 
violent  inward  emotion.  I  thought  him  mad.  This 
is  all.  Now,  I  should  not  be  a  woman  if  1  had  not 
perceived  that  for  more  than  a  year  I  had  become, 
as  they  call  it,  the  passion  of  Monsieur  de  Maulin- 
cour.    He  has  never  seen  me  except  at  a  ball,  and 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  87 

our  intercourse  had  always  been  insignificant,  like 
that  which  one  has  at  balls.  Perhaps  he  wishes 
to  disunite  us,  so  that  he  may  find  me  at  some  future 
time  alone  and  unprotected.  There,  see  already  you 
are  frowning!  Oh,  how  cordially  I  hate  society. 
We  were  so  happy  without  him !  why  take  any 
notice  of  him  ?  Jules,  promise  me  to  forget  all  this. 
To-morrow  we  shall  no  doubt  hear  that  Monsieur 
de  Maulincour  has  gone  mad." 

"What  a  singular  affair !"  thought  Jules  as  he 
descended  from  the  carriage  under  the  peristyle  of 
his  stairway. 

He  gave  his  arm  to  his  wife,  and  together  they 
went  up  to  their  apartments. 

To  develop  this  history  in  all  its  truth  of  detail, 
and  to  follow  its  course  through  all  its  windings,  it 
is  necessary  here  to  divulge  some  of  love's  secrets, 
to  glide  beneath  the  ceilings  of  a  marriage  chamber, 
not  shamelessly,  but  like  Trilby,  frightening 
neither  Dougal  nor  Jeannie,  alarming  no  one,  being 
as  chaste  as  our  noble  French  language  requires,  as 
bold  as  was  the  pencil  of  Gerard  in  his  painting 
of  Daphnis  and  Chloe.  The  bedroom  of  Madame 
Jules  was  a  sacred  spot.  Herself,  her  husband, 
and  her  maid  alone  entered  it.  Opulence  has  some 
noble  privileges,  and  the  most  enviable  are  those 
which  permit  the  development  of  the  sentiments  to 
their  fullest  extent,  fertilizing  them  by  the  accom- 
plishment of  their  thousand  caprices,  surrounding 
them  with  that  brilliancy  which  enlarges  them, 
with  those  refinements  which  purify  them,   with 


88  FERRAGUS 

those  delicacies  which  render  them  still  more  allur- 
ing. If  you  hate  dinners  on  the  grass  and  meals  ill- 
served,  if  you  experience  a  pleasure  at  the  sight  of 
a  damask  cloth  of  a  dazzling  whiteness,  a  silver  gilt 
service,  porcelains  of  exquisite  purity,  of  a  table 
served  with  gold,  rich  with  chased  silverware, 
lighted  by  transparent  candles,  where  miracles  of 
the  most  exquisite  cookery  are  served  under  covers 
with  armorial  bearings,— you  must,  to  be  consist- 
ent, leave  the  garrets  at  the  tops  of  the  houses,  the 
grisettes  in  the  streets,  abandon  the  garrets,  the 
grisettes,  the  umbrellas  and  pattens  to  those  peo- 
ple who  pay  for  their  dinners  with  tickets;  then 
you  will  be  able  to  comprehend  love  as  a  principle 
which  only  develops  in  all  its  grace  on  carpets  of 
the  Savonnerie,  beneath  the  opal  light  of  an  alabas- 
ter lamp,  between  guarded  and  discreet  walls  hung 
with  silk,  before  a  gilded  hearth  in  a  chamber  deaf- 
ened to  the  sounds  of  the  neighbors,  street  and  every- 
thing by  shades,  by  shutters,  by  billowy  curtains. 
You  will  require  mirrors  in  which  to  show  the  play 
of  form,  and  in  which  may  be  repeated  infinitely  the 
woman  whom  we  would  multiply,  and  whom  love 
often  multiplies;  then  very  low  divans;  then  a  bed 
which,  like  a  secret,  is  divined  without  being 
shown;  then,  in  this  coquettish  chamber  are  fur- 
lined  slippers  for  naked  feet,  wax  candles  under 
glass  with  muslin  draperies,  by  which  to  read  at  all 
hours  of  the  night,  and  flowers,  not  those  oppres- 
sive to  the  head,  and  linen,  the  fineness  of  which 
might  have  satisfied   Anne   of  Austria.      Madame 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  89 

Jules  had  realized  this  delightful  programme,  but 
that  was  nothing.  Any  woman  of  taste  could  have 
done  as  much,  although,  nevertheless,  there  was  in 
the  arrangement  of  these  details  a  stamp  of  person- 
ality, which  gives  to  this  ornament,  to  that  detail, 
a  character  that  cannot  be  imitated.  To-day  more 
than  ever  reigns  the  fanaticism  of  individuality. 
The  more  our  laws  tend  to  an  impossible  equality, 
the  more  we  get  away  from  it  in  our  manners  and 
customs.  Thus,  the  rich  people  in  France  are  begin- 
ning to  become  more  exclusive  in  their  tastes  and 
in  their  belongings  than  they  have  been  for  the  last 
thirty  years.  Madame  Jules  knew  well  to  what 
this  programme  tended,  and  had  arranged  every- 
thing about  her  in  harmony  with  a  luxury  that 
suits  so  well  with  love.  The  Quince  Cents  Francs 
et  Ma  Sophie,  or  love  in  a  cottage,  are  the  dreams  of 
starvelings  to  whom  black  bread  suffices  in  their 
present  state,  but  who,  become  gourmands  if  they 
really  love,  end  by  carving  all  the  luxuries  of  gas- 
tronomy. Love  holds  toil  and  poverty  in  horror. 
It  would  rather  die  than  live  from  hand  to  mouth. 
Most  women  returning  from  a  ball,  impatient  for 
their  beds,  throw  off  anywhere  their  gowns,  their 
faded  flowers,  their  bouquets,  the  fragrance  of  which 
has  now  departed.  They  leave  their  little  shoes 
beneath  a  chair,  walk  about  in  loose  slippers,  take 
out  their  combs  and  let  their  hair  roll  down  as  it 
will.  Little  they  care  if  their  husbands  see  the 
clasps,  the  hair  pins,  the  artful  props  which  sup- 
ported the  elegant  edifice  of  the  hair  and  of  its 


QO  FERRAGUS 

dressing.  No  more  mysteries, — everything  is  let 
down  before  the  husband,  there  is  no  longer  any 
embellishing  for  the  husband.  The  corset — the 
most  part  of  the  time  strictly  cared  for — lies  where 
it  is  thrown  if  the  too  sleepy  maid  forgets  to  take 
it  away  with  her.  Then  the  whalebone  bustle,  the 
oiled  silk  protections  under  the  sleeves,  the  pads, 
the  false  hair  sold  by  the  coiffeur,  all  the  false  wo- 
man, is  there,  scattered  about  in  open  sight  Dis- 
jecta membra  poeice,  the  artificial  poetry  so  much 
admired  by  those  for  whom  it  has  been  conceived, 
elaborated,  the  fragments  of  the  pretty  woman, 
litter  all  the  corners  of  the  room.  To  the  love  of  a 
husband  who  yawns,  the  actual  woman  presents 
herself,  also  yawning,  in  an  inelegant  disorder  and 
with  a  tumbled  nightcap,  that  of  last  night,  that  of 
to-morrow  night  also: 

"For,  really  Monsieur,  if  you  want  a  pretty  night- 
cap to  rumple  every  night,  give  me  some  more  pin-  A 
money. 

There's  life  as  it  is!  A  woman  is  always  old 
and  unpleasing  to  her  husband,  but  always  dainty, 
elegant  and  adorned  for  the  other,  for  that  rival  of 
all  husbands,  for  that  world  which  calumniates  and 
tears  to  shreds  her  sex.  Inspired  by  a  true  love, 
for  love  has  like  other  beings  its  instinct  of  self- 
preservation,  Madame  Jules  did  very  differently, 
and  found  in  the  constant  benefits  of  her  happy  state 
the  necessary  impulse  to  accomplish  all  those  min- 
ute personal  duties  which  ought  never  to  be  relaxed, 
because  they  perpetuate  love.     These  cares,  these 


CHIEF  OF  THE   DEVORANTS  9I 

duties,  do  they  not  proceed  moreover  from  a  per- 
sonal dignity  which  is  ravishingly  becoming?     Are 
they  not  subtle  flatteries,  is  this  not  to  respect  in 
one's  self  the  beloved  one  ?     So  Madame  Jules  had 
denied  to  her  husband  all  access  to  her  dressing- 
room  where  she  changed  her  ball  dress,  and  whence 
she    issued    dressed    for    the   night,    mysteriously 
adorned  for  the  mysterious  fetes  of  her  heart     In 
entering  the  chamber,  which  was  always  elegant 
and   graceful,    Jules   saw  there   a  woman   coquet- 
tishly  enveloped  in  an  elegant  peignoir,  her  hair 
simply  wound    in   heavy   coils   around   her   head; 
for,  not  fearing  to  disarrange  them,   she  guarded 
them  neither  from  the  sight  nor  the  touch  of  love; 
a  woman  always  more  simple,  more  beautiful  then, 
than  she  was  before  the  world ;  a  woman  who  had 
found  refreshment  in  her    bath,    and   whose   only 
artifice  consisted  in  being  whiter  than  her  muslins, 
fresher  than  the  freshest  perfume,  more  seductive 
than  the  most  skilful  courtesan,   in  short,  always 
tender  and  therefore  always  loved.    This  admirable 
understanding  of  a  wife's  business  was  the  great 
secret  of  Josephine's  charm  for  Napoleon,  as  it  was 
in  former  times  that  of  Cassonia  for  Caius  Calig- 
ula, of  Diane  de  Poitiers  for  Henri  II.     But,  if  it 
was  largely  productive  for  women  who  have  counted 
seven  or  eight  lustres,  what  a  weapon   it  is  in  the 
hands  of  young  women!     A  husband  gathers  with 
delight  the  rewards  of  his  fidelity. 

So  now,  on  returning  home  after  this  conversa- 
tion which  had  chilled  her  with  fear  and  which  still 


92  FERRAGUS 

gave  her  the  keenest  anxiety,  Madame  Jules  took 
particular  pains  with  her  toilet  for  the  night  She 
wished  to  make  herself,  and  she  did  make  herself, 
enchanting.  She  girdled  the  batiste  of  her  peignoir 
slightly  opening  the  corsage,  let  her  black  hair  fall 
on  her  rounded  shoulders;  her  perfumed  bath  had 
given  her  an  intoxicating  fragrance;  her  bare  feet 
were  in  velvet  slippers.  Strong  in  her  sense  of  her 
advantages,  she  came  in,  stepping  softly,  and  put 
her  hands  over  her  husband's  eyes  whom  she 
found  standing  thoughtfully  in  his  dressing-gown, 
his  elbow  on  the  mantel  and  one  foot  on  the  fender. 
She  said  in  his  ear,  warming  it  with  her  breath  and 
biting  the  end  of  it  gently  with  her  teeth: 

"What  are  you  thinking  about.  Monsieur?" 

Then,  clasping  him  closely,  she  enveloped  him 
with  her  arms  to  tear  him  away  from  his  evil 
thoughts.  The  woman  who  loves  has  a  full  knowl- 
edge of  her  power;  and  the  more  virtuous  she  is 
the  more  effectual  is  her  coquetry. 

"About  you,"  he  answered. 

"Only  about  me.?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  that  is  a  very  bold  'Yes  '  " 

They  went  to  bed.  As  she  fell  asleep  Madame 
Jules  said  to  herself: 

"Decidedly,  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  will  be  the 
cause  of  some  evil.  Jules  is  preoccupied,  disturbed, 
and  nursing  thoughts  he  does  not  tell  me." 

It  was  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  when 
she  was  awakened  by  a  presentiment  which  had 


CHIEF  OF  THE   DEVORANTS  93 

struck  her  heart  as  she  slept.  She  had  a  percep- 
tion, at  once  physical  and  moral,  of  her  husband's 
absence.  She  did  not  longer  feel  the  arm  which 
Jules  passed  beneath  her  head,  that  arm  on  which 
she  had  slept,  peaceful  and  happy  for  five  years, 
and  which  she  never  wearied.  A  voice  had  said  to 
her,  "Jules  suffers,  Jules  is  weeping—"  She 
raised  her  head  and  then  sat  up,  felt  that  her  hus- 
band's place  was  cold,  and  saw  him  sitting  before 
the  fire,  his  feet  on  the  fender,  his  head  resting  on 
the  back  of  an  armchair.  He  had  tears  on  his 
cheeks.  The  poor  woman  threw  herself  hastily 
from  her  bed  and  sprang  at  a  bound  to  her  husband's 
knee. 

"Jules,  what  is  it?  Are  you  suffering — speak! 
tell  me!  speak  to  me  if  you  love  me." 

And  in  a  moment  she  poured  out  to  him  a  hundred 
words  expressive  of  the  deepest  tenderness. 

Jules  knelt  at  the  feet  of  his  wife,  kissed  her 
knees,  her  hands,  and  answered  her  with  fresh  tears : 

"My  dear  Clemence,  1  am  most  unhappy!  It  is 
not  loving  to  distrust  your  mistress,  and  you  are 
my  mistress.  1  adore  you,  and  suspect  you. — The 
words  which  that  man  said  to  me  this  evening  have 
struck  to  my  heart;  they  stay  there  in  spite  of  my- 
self, to  confound  me.  There  is  underneath  it  all 
some  mystery.  In  short,  and  I  blush  for  it,  your 
explanations  have  not  satisfied  me.  My  reason 
offers  me  a  certain  light  which  my  love  causes  me 
to  reject.  It  is  an  awful  combat.  Could  I  stay 
there,  holding  your  head  and  suspecting  thoughts 


94  FERRAGUS 

within  it,  to  me  unknown? — Oil,  I  believe  in  you, 
1  believe  in  you,"  cried  he,  quickly,  seeing  her 
smile  sadly  and  open  her  mouth  as  if  to  speak. 
"Do  not  say  anything  to  me — reproach  me  with 
nothing.  From  you,  the  least  word  would  kill  me. 
Besides,  could  you  say  a  single  thing  to  me  which 
I  have  not  said  to  myself  for  the  last  three  hours  ? 
Yes,  for  three  hours  I  have  been  here,  watching 
you  as  you  slept,  so  beautiful,  admiring  your  fore- 
head, so  pure,  so  peaceful.  Oh!  yes,  you  have 
always  told  me  all  your  thoughts,  have  you  not?  I 
alone  am  in  your  soul.  While  I  look  at  you,  while 
my  eyes  can  plunge  into  yours,  I  see  all  plainly. 
Your  life  is  always  as  pure  as  your  glance  is  clear. 
No,  there  is  no  secret  behind  those  transparent 
eyes." 

And  he  rose  and  kissed  them  softly. 

"Let  me  avow  to  you,  my  dearest,  that  for  the 
last  five  years  that  which  has  increased  my  happi- 
ness day  by  day  was  the  knowledge  that  you  had 
none  of  those  natural  affections  which  always  take 
away  a  little  from  love.  You  had  no  sister,  nor 
father,  nor  mother,  nor  companion,  and  I  was  there- 
fore neither  above  nor  below  any  one  else  in  your 
heart;  I  was  there  alone.  Clemence,  repeat  to  me 
all  those  sweet  things  of  the  spirit  you  have  so 
often  said  to  me;  do  not  blame  me,  console  me,  I  am 
unhappy.  I  have  certainly  an  odious  suspicion  with 
which  to  reproach  myself,  and  you — you  have 
nothing  in  your  heart  to  inflame  you.  My  beloved, 
tell  me,  could  I  rest  thus  beside  you  ?    Could  two 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  95 

heads  united  as  ours  have  been,  lie  on  the  same 
pillow  when  one  was  suffering  and  the  other  tran- 
quil ? — What  are  you  thinking  of?''  he  cried 
abruptly  observing  that  Clemence  was  anxious, 
confused,  and  could  not  restrain  her  tears. 

"I  am  thinking  of  my  mother,"  she  answered  in 
a  grave  voice.  "You  will  never  know,  Jules,  the 
sorrow  of  your  Clemence  obliged  to  remember  the 
dying  farewells  of  her  mother  in  hearing  your 
voice,  the  sweetest  of  all  music;  and  in  thinking  of 
the  solemn  pressure  of  the  icy  hand  of  a  dying  one 
in  feeling  the  caresses  of  yours,  at  the  moment 
when  you  overwhelm  me  with  the  assurances  of 
your  delightful  love." 

She  raised  her  husband,  took  hold  of  him, 
strained  him  to  her  with  a  nervous  force  much 
greater  than  that  of  a  man,  kissed  his  hair,  and  cov- 
ered it  with  her  tears. 

"Ah!  I  would  be  hacked  to  pieces  for  you!  Tell 
me  that  I  make  you  happy,  that  I  am  to  you  the 
most  beautiful  of  women,  that  I  am  a  thousand  wo- 
men for  you.  But  you  are  loved  as  no  other  man 
ever  will  be.  I  do  not  know  the  meaning  of  the 
words  duty,  and  virtue.  Jules,  I  love  you  for  your- 
self, I  am  happy  in  loving  you,  and  I  will  love  you 
more  and  more  until  my  last  breath.  I  have  pride 
in  my  love,  1  feel  that  I  am  destined  to  have  only 
one  sentiment  in  my  whole  life.  What  I  am  going 
to  say  to  you  is  dreadful  perhaps, — I  am  glad  to 
have  no  child,  and  I  do  not  wish  for  any.  I  feel 
myself  more  wife  than  mother.     Well !  then,  have 


96  FERRAGUS 

you  fears?  Listen  to  me,  my  love,  promise  me  to 
forget,  not  this  hour  of  mingled  tenderness  and  doubt, 
but  the  words  of  that  madman.  Jules,  I  wish  it 
Promise  me  not  to  see  him,  not  to  go  to  him.  I 
have  a  conviction  that  if  you  make  one  step  more 
into  this  maze,  we  shall  both  roll  into  an  abyss 
in  which  I  shall  perish,  but  with  your  name  upon 
my  lips  and  your  heart  in  my  heart  Why  do 
you  hold  me  so  high  in  your  soul  and  yet  so  low  in 
reality?  How  is  it  that  you,  who  give  credit  to  so 
many  as  to  money,  cannot  give  up  to  me  the  beg- 
garly gift  of  a  suspicion ;  and,  for  the  first  occasion 
in  your  life  in  which  you  might  prove  to  me  a 
boundless  faith,  you  dethrone  me  in  your  heart! 
Between  a  madman  and  me,  it  is  the  madman 
whom  you  believe! — Oh  Jules — " 

She  stopped,  threw  back  the  hair  that  fell  about 
her  brow  and  her  neck,  then  in  a  heart-rending 
tone  she  added : 

"I  have  said  too  much,  one  word  should  suffice. 
If  your  soul  and  your  forehead  still  keep  this  cloud, 
however  light  it  may  be,  know  well  that  I  shall  die 
of  it!" 

She  could  not  repress  a  shudder  and  turned  pale. 

"Oh!  I  will  kill  that  man,"  thought  Jules,  as  he 
lifted  his  wife  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  to  her 
bed. — "Let  us  sleep  in  peace  my  angel,"  he  con- 
tinued.    "I  have  forgotten  all,  1  swear  it  to  you." 

Clemence  fell  asleep  to  the  music  of  these  sweet 
words,  more  softly  repeated.  Jules,  as  he  watched 
her  sleeping,  said  in  his  heart: 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  97 

"She  is  right,  when  love  is  so  pure,  a  suspicion 
blights  it.  For  that  soul  so  fresh,  for  that  brow  so 
tender,  a  blemish,  yes,  that  would  mean  death." 

When,  between  two  beings  filled  with  affection 
for  each  other  and  whose  lives  are  in  constant  com- 
munion, a  cloud  has  come,  although  this  cloud  may 
be  dissipated,  it  leaves  in  these  souls  some  trace  of 
its  passage.  Either,  the  mutual  tenderness  becomes 
more  living,  as  the  earth  is  rejuvenated  after  the 
shower;  or,  the  shock  still  echoes  like  distant  thun- 
der through  a  cloudless  sky;  but  it  is  impossible  to 
recover  absolutely  the  former  life,  and  it  will  inev- 
itably happen  that  love  will  either  increase  or 
diminish.  At  breakfast.  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Jules  showed  to  each  other  those  particular  atten- 
tions in  which  there  is  always  a  little  affectation. 
There  were  glances  full  of  a  gaiety  which  seemed 
almost  forced,  and  which  seemed  to  be  the  efforts 
of  persons  endeavoring  to  deceive  themselves. 
Jules  had  involuntary  doubts,  and  his  wife  had  posi- 
tive fears.  Nevertheless,  sure  of  each  other,  they 
had  slept.  Was  this  strained  condition  the  effect 
of  a  want  of  faith,  or  of  the  memory  of  their  noctur- 
nal scene?  They  did  not  know  themselves.  But 
they  loved  each  other,  they  loved  each  other  so 
purely  that  the  impression  at  once  cruel  and  benefi- 
cent of  that  scene  could  not  fail  to  leave  its  traces 
in  their  souls;  both  of  them  eager  to  make  those 
traces  disappear,  and  each  wishing  to  be  the  first  to 
return  to  the  other,  they  could  not  yet  fail  to  think 
of  the  first  cause,  of  this  first  discord.  For  loving 
7 


98  FERRAGUS 

souls,  this  is  not  grief,  pain  is  still  far  distant;  but 
it  is  a  sort  of  mourning  which  is  difficult  to  depict. 
If  there  are  indeed  relations  between  colors  and  the 
agitation  of  the  soul,  if,  as  Locke's  blind  man  said, 
scarlet  produces  on  the  sight  the  effects  produced 
on  the  ear  by  a  fanfare  of  trumpets,  it  may  perhaps 
be  permissible  to  compare  this  reaction  of  melan- 
choly to  soft  gray  tones.  But  love  saddened,  love 
in  which  remains  a  true  sentiment  of  its  happiness 
momentarily  troubled,  gives  voluptuous  pleasure 
which,  derived  from  pain  and  pleasure  both,  are  all 
novel.  Jules  studied  his  wife's  voice,  he  watched 
her  glances  with  the  freshness  of  feeling  that  had 
inspired  him  in  the  earliest  moments  of  his  passion 
for  her.  The  memory  of  five  perfectly  happy  years, 
the  beauty  of  Clemence,  the  candor  of  her  love, 
promptly  effaced  in  her  husband's  mind  the  last  ves- 
tiges of  an  intolerable  pain. 

This  next  day  was  Sunday,  a  day  on  which  there 
was  no  Bourse  and  no  business;  the  two  therefore 
passed  the  whole  day  together,  getting  farther  into 
each  others'  hearts  than  they  had  ever  yet  done, 
like  two  children  who  in  a  moment  of  fear  hold  each 
other  tightly,  pressing  together,  and  clasp  each 
other  united  by  a  common  instinct.  There  are  in 
this  life  of  two  in  one,  completely  happy  days, 
due  to  chance,  without  any  connection  with  yester- 
day or  to-morrow,  ephemeral  flowers! — Jules  and 
Clemence  enjoyed  this  delicious  day  as  though  they 
had  a  foreboding  that  it  would  be  the  last  of  their 
loving   life.      What   name  shall  we  give  to   that 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  99 

unknown  power  which  hastens  the  steps  of  the  trav- 
eler before  the  storm  is  yet  visible,  which  makes 
the  dying  resplendent  with  life  and  with  beauty  a 
few  days  before  his  death  and  inspires  him  with 
the  most  joyous  projects  for  the  future,  which  tells 
the  midnight  student  to  turn  up  his  lamp  while  it 
still  shines  brightly,  which  makes  a  mother  to 
fear  the  too  thoughtful  look  cast  upon  her  infant  by 
an  observing  man?  We  are  all  affected  by  this  in- 
fluence in  the  great  catastrophes  of  our  life  and  we 
have  not  yet  either  named  or  studied  it;  it  is  some- 
thing more  than  presentiment  and  it  is  not  yet 
sight.  All  went  well  until  the  following  day.  On 
Monday,  Jules  Desmarets,  obliged  to  go  to  the 
Bourse  at  his  usual  hour,  did  not  depart  without 
asking  his  wife  according  to  his  custom  if  she 
wished  to  be  driven  anywhere  in  his  carriage. 

"No,"  she  said,  "the  day  is  too  unpleasant  to  go 
out." 

In  fact,  it  was  raining  in  torrents.  It  was  about 
half-past  two  when  Monsieur  Desmarets  reached  the 
Exchange  and  the  Treasury.  At  four  o'clock,  in 
coming  out  of  the  Bourse,  he  found  himself  face  to 
face  with  Monsieur  de  Maulincour,  who  was  waiting 
for  him  there  with  that  feverish  pertinacity  which 
is  the  result  of  hatred  and  vengeance. 

"Monsieur,  I  have  important  communications  to 
make  to  you,"  said  the  officer  taking  the  broker  by 
the  arm.  "Listen  to  me,  I  am  too  loyal  a  man  to 
have  recourse  to  anonymous  letters  which  would 
trouble  your  peace  of  mind,  I  prefer  to  speak  to  you 


100  FERRAGUS 

in  person.  Moreover,  believe  that  if  it  were  not  a 
question  of  my  life  I  certainly  should  not  interfere 
in  any  manner  with  the  private  affairs  of  a  house- 
hold, even  if  I  thought  I  had  the  right  to  do  so." 

"If  what  you  have  to  say  to  me  concerns  Madame 
Desmarets,"  replied  Jules,  "I  request  you,  Mon- 
sieur, to  be  silent." 

"If  I  am  silent,  Monsieur,  you  may  before  long 
see  Madame  Jules  on  the  prisoners'  bench  at  the 
Court  of  Assizes,  by  the  side  of  a  convict.  Now  do 
you  wish  me  to  be  silent.'' " 

Jules  turned  pale,  but  his  noble  countenance 
instantly  resumed  a  calm  which  was  now  false; 
then,  drawing  the  officer  under  one  of  the  temporary 
shelters  of  the  Bourse  near  which  they  were  stand- 
ing, he  said  to  him  in  a  voice  which  concealed  his 
intense  inward  emotion: 

"Monsieur,  I  will  listen  to  you,  but  there  will  be 
between  us  a  duel  to  the  death,  if — " 

"Oh!  to  that  1  consent,"  cried  Monsieur  de  Mau- 
lincour.  "I  have  the  greatest  esteem  for  you.  You 
speak  of  death.  Monsieur  ?  You  are  doubtless  igno- 
rant that  your  wife  perhaps  caused  me  to  be  poi- 
soned last  Saturday  evening.  Yes,  Monsieur,  since 
day  before  yesterday  something  extraordinary  has 
developed  in  me;  my  hair  appears  to  distill  in  me 
through  my  head  a  fever  and  a  deadly  languor,  and 
I  know  perfectly  well  what  man  touched  my  hair 
during  the  ball." 

Monsieur  de  Maulincour  then  related,  without 
omitting  a  single  fact,  his  platonic  love  for  Madame 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  lOI 

Jules  and  the  details  of  the  adventure  which  began 
this  narrative.  Any  one  would  have  listened  to 
him  with  as  much  attention  as  did  the  broker.  But 
the  husband  of  Madame  Jules  had  good  reason  to  be 
more  amazed  than  any  other  human  being.  Here, 
his  character  displayed  itself,  he  was  more  amazed 
than  overwhelmed.  Made  a  judge,  and  the  judge  of 
an  adored  woman,  he  found  in  his  soul  the  equity  of 
a  judge,  as  he  took  the  inflexibility  of  one.  A  lover 
still,  he  thought  less  of  his  own  shattered  life  than 
of  that  of  this  woman;  he  listened  not  to  his  own 
anguish  but  to  the  far-off  voice  that  cried  to  him, 
"Clemence  cannot  lie!  Why  should  she  betray 
you.-* " 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  officer  of  the  guards  in  con- 
cluding, "being  absolutely  certain  of  having  recog- 
nized Saturday  evening  in  Monsieur  de  Funcal  that 
Ferragus  whom  the  police  declared  dead,  I  have  put 
immediately  on  his  traces  an  intelligent  man.  As  1 
returned  home  I  remembered  by  a  fortunate  chance 
the  name  of  Madame  Meynardie,  mentioned  in  the 
letter  of  that  Ida,  the  presumed  mistress  of  my  per- 
secutor. Supplied  with  this  one  clue  my  emissary 
will  soon  discover  for  me  the  facts  of  this  horrible 
affair,  for  he  is  far  more  able  to  discover  the  truth 
than  the  police  themselves." 

"Monsieur,"  replied  the  broker,  "I  do  not  know 
how  to  thank  you  for  this  confidence.  You  say  that 
you  can  obtain  proof,  witnesses,  I  shall  await  them. 
I  shall  seek  courageously  the  truth  of  this  strange 
affair,  but  you  will  permit  me  to  doubt  everything 


102  FERRAGUS 

until  the  evidence  of  these  facts  is  proven  to  me. 
In  any  case,  you  shall  have  satisfaction,  as  you 
must  know  that  such  is  demanded  by  both." 

Jules  returned  home. 

"What  is  the  matter?  "said  his  wife  to  him. 
You  are  so  pale  you  frighten  me." 

"The  day  is  cold,"  he  answered  walking  with  a 
slow  step  into  that  chamber  in  which  everything 
spoke  of  happiness  and  of  love,  that  chamber  so  calm 
in  which  was  gathering  a  deadly  tempest. 

"You  have  not  been  out  to-day?  "he  asked  as 
though  mechanically. 

He  was  impelled  to  ask  this  question,  doubtless,  by 
the  last  of  a  thousand  thoughts  which  had  secretly 
gathered  themselves  together  into  a  meditation, 
lucid  although  it  was  actively  prompted  by  jeal- 
ousy. 

"No,"  she  answered  with  a  false  accent  of 
candor. 

At  that  moment  Jules  saw  in  the  dressing-room 
of  his  wife  some  drops  of  rain  on  the  velvet  bonnet 
which  she  wore  in  the  morning.  He  was  a  passion- 
ate man,  but  he  was  also  full  of  delicacy,  and  it 
was  repugnant  to  him  to  bring  his  wife  face  to  face 
with  a  lie.  In  such  a  situation,  everything  is  fin- 
ished for  life  between  certain  beings.  And  yet 
these  drops  of  rain  were  like  a  flash  which  tore 
open  his  brain. 

He  left  the  room,  went  down  to  the  porter's  lodge 
and  said  to  his  concierge,  after  making  sure  that 
they  were  alone : 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  IO3 

**Fouquereau,  a  hundred  crowns  of  pension  if  you 
tell  me  the  truth,  dismissal  if  you  deceive  me,  and 
nothing  at  all  if,  having  told  me  the  truth,  you 
ever  speak  of  my  question  and  your  answer." 

He  stopped  to  examine  the  concierge's  face, 
leading  him  to  the  light  of  the  window,  and  re- 
sumed : 

"Did  Madame  go  out  this  morning?  " 

"Madame  went  out  at  a  quarter  to  three,  and  I 
think  I  saw  her  come  in  about  half  an  hour  ago." 

"That  is  true,  upon  your  honor?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

"You  will  have  the  pension  which  I  promised 
you ;  but  if  you  speak  of  this,  remember  my  prom- 
ise, you  will  lose  all." 

Jules  returned  to  his  wife. 

"Clemence, "  he  said  to  her,  "I  find  I  must  put 
my  household  accounts  in  order,  do  not  be  offended 
at  the  inquiry  I  am  going  to  make.  Have  I  not 
given  you  forty  thousand  francs  since  the  beginning 
of  the  year  ? ' ' 

"More,"  she  said,  "forty-seven." 

"Have  you  found  use  for  them  all  ? " 

"Why,  yes,"  she  replied.  "In  the  first  place, 
I  had  to  pay  several  of  our  last  year's  bills — " 

"I  shall  never  find  out  anything  in  this  way," 
thought  Jules,  "I  am  not  taking  the  best  course.  " 

At  this  moment  his  valet  de  chambre  entered  and 
handed  him  a  letter,  which  he  opened  indifferently, 
but  which  he  read  eagerly  as  soon  as  his  eyes  had 
lighted  on  the  signature. 


104  FERRAGUS 

"MONSIEUR, 

"For  the  sake  of  your  peace  of  mind  as  well  as  of  our  own 
I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  writing  to  you  without  possessing 
the  advantage  of  being  known  to  you;  but  my  position,  my 
age,  and  the  fear  of  some  misfortune  compel  me  to  entreat 
you  to  have  some  indulgence  in  the  unfortunate  circumstances 
in  which  our  afflicted  family  now  finds  itself.  Monsieur 
Auguste  de  Maulincour  has  for  the  last  few  days  shown  signs 
of  mental  derangement,  and  we  fear  that  he  may  trouble 
your  happiness  by  fancies  which  he  has  confided  to  us,  Mon- 
sieur le  Commandeur  de  Pamiers  and  myself,  during  his  first 
attacks  of  fever.  We  think  it  right  therefore  to  warn  you  of 
his  malady,  which  is  without  doubt  still  curable;  but  it  will 
have  such  grave  and  important  effects  on  the  honor  of  our 
family  and  the  future  of  my  grandson  that  I  count  on  your 
entire  discretion.  If  Monsieur  le  Commandeur  or  I,  Mon- 
sieur, had  been  able  to  go  to  your  house  we  would  not  have 
written;  but  1  have  no  doubt  that  you  will  regard  the  prayer 
which  is  here  made  to  you  by  a  mother,  to  burn  this  letter. 

"Accept  the  assurance  of  my  distinguished  consideration, 

BARONNE  DE  MAULINCOUR,  nee  DE  RIEUX." 

"How  many  tortures!  "  cried  Jules. 

"But  what  is  passing  in  your  mind.!"'  asked  his 
wife,  exhibiting  the  deepest  anxiety. 

"I  have  come,"  he  answered,  "to  ask  myself 
whether  it  can  be  you  who  have  sent  me  this 
notice  to  divert  my  suspicions,"  he  went  on,  throw- 
ing the  letter  to  her.  "Judge  therefore  what  I  suffer !" 

"Unhappy  man,"  said  Madame  Jules,  letting  fall 
the  paper,  "I  pity  him,  although  he  has  done  me 
great  harm." 

"You  know  that  he  has  spoken  to  me.^*" 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  105 

**Oh,  you  have  been  to  see  him,  in  spite  of  your 
promise?"  she  cried,  struck  with  terror. 

"Clemence,  our  love  is  in  danger  of  perishing, 
and  we  are  outside  of  all  the  ordinary  rules  of  life, 
let  us  then  lay  aside  all  petty  considerations  in  pres- 
ence of  the  great  perils.  Listen,  tell  me  why  you 
went  out  this  morning?  Women  think  they  have 
the  right  to  tell  us,  sometimes,  little  falsehoods.  Do 
they  not  like  to  amuse  themselves  often  by  conceal- 
ing pleasures  which  they  are  preparing  for  us? 
Just  now  you  said  to  me,  by  mistake  no  doubt,  one 
word  for  another,  a  no  for  a  yes." 

He  went  into  the  dressing-room  and  brought  out 
the  bonnet. 

"See,  now!  without  wishing  to  play  here  the 
part  of  Bartholo,  your  bonnet  has  betrayed  you. 
These  spots,  are  they  not  rain  drops  ?  You  must, 
therefore,  have  gone  out  in  a  street  cab,  and  you 
must  have  received  these  drops  of  water  either  in 
going  out  to  seek  one,  or  entering  the  house  to 
which  you  went,  or  in  leaving  it.  But  a  woman 
can  leave  her  own  house  most  innocently,  even 
after  she  has  told  her  husband  that  she  would  not  go 
out.  There  are  so  many  reasons  for  changing  our 
plans!  To  have  caprices,  is  not  that  one  of  your 
rights?  You  are  not  obliged  to  be  consistent  with 
yourself.  You  had  forgotten  something,  a  service 
to  render,  a  visit,  or  some  kind  action  to  do.  But 
nothing  hinders  a  woman  from  telling  her  husband 
what  she  has  done.  Does  one  ever  blush  on  the 
breast  of   a  friend?     Well,   it   is   not  the  jealous 


I06  FERRAGUS 

husband  who  speaks  to  you,  my  Clemence,  it  is  the 
lover,  it  is  the  friend,  it  is  the  brother." 

He  flung  himself  passionately  at  her  feet. 

"Speak,  not  to  justify  yourself,  but  to  calm  my 
horrible  suffering.  I  know  well  that  you  went  out. 
Well,  what  did  you  do.?    Where  did  you  go?  " 

"Yes,  I  went  out,  Jules,"  she  answered  in  an 
altered  voice,  although  her  face  was  calm.  "But 
ask  me  nothing  more.  Wait  with  confidence;  with- 
out which  you  will  lay  up  for  yourself  eternal  re- 
morse. Jules,  my  Jules,  confidence  is  the  virtue  of 
love.  I  own  to  you  that  in  this  moment  I  am  too 
much  troubled  to  answer  you ;  but  I  am  not  an  artful 
woman,  and  I  love  you,  you  know  it." 

"In  the  midst  of  all  that  can  shake  the  faith  of  a 
man  and  rouse  his  jealousy,  for  I  am  not  then  the 
first  in  your  heart,  I  am  not  then  yourself  i* — Well, 
Clemence,  I  still  prefer  to  believe  you,  to  believe 
your  voice,  to  believe  your  eyes!  If  you  deceive 
me,  you  deserve — " 

"Oh!  a  thousand  deaths,"  she  said,  interrupting 
him. 

"I  hide  from  you  none  of  my  thoughts,  and  you, 
— you — " 

"Hush!"  she  said,  "our  happiness  depends  upon 
our  mutual  silence. " 

"Ah!  I  will  know  all,"  he  cried  in  a  violent  ac- 
cess of  rage. 

At  that  moment  the  cries  of  a  woman  were  heard 
and  the  yelping  of  a  shrill  little  voice  came  from  the 
ante-chamber  to  the  ears  of  husband  and  wife. 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  107 

"I  will  enter,  I  tell  you!  "  it  cried.  "Yes,  I  shall 
enter,  1  wish  to  see  her,  I  will  see  her! " 

Jules  and  Clemence  rushed  into  the  salon  and 
they  saw  the  door  violently  opened.  A  young 
woman  entered  suddenly,  followed  by  two  servants 
who  said  to  their  master : 

"Monsieur,  this  woman  would  come  in  in  spite 
of  us.  We  told  her  that  Madame  was  not  at  home. 
She  answered  that  she  knew  very  well  that  Madame 
had  been  out  but  she  had  seen  her  come  in.  She 
threatened  to  stay  at  the  door  of  the  house  till  she 
could  speak  to  Madame." 

"You  can  go,"  said  Monsieur  Desmarets  to  his 
domestics. 

"What  do  you  want.  Mademoiselle?"  he  added, 
turning  to  the  unknown. 

This  demoiselle  was  the  type  of  a  woman  who 
is  to  be  met  with  nowhere  but  in  Paris.  She  is 
made  in  Paris,  like  the  mud,  like  the  pavement  of 
Paris,  as  the  water  of  the  Seine  is  manufactured  in 
Paris  in  grand  reservoirs  through  which  human 
industry  filters  it  ten  times  before  delivering  it  to 
the  cut  glass  carafes  in  which  it  sparkles  so  clear 
and  pure,  from  the  muddiness  that  it  had.  She  is 
therefore  a  creature  truly  original.  Depicted  scores 
of  times  by  the  painter's  brush,  the  pencil  of  the 
caricaturist,  the  plumbago  of  the  designer,  she  still 
escapes  all  analysis  because  she  cannot  be  caught 
and  rendered  in  all  her  moods,  like  nature,  like  this 
fantastic  Paris.  In  fact,  she  holds  to  vice  by  but 
one   spoke   and   breaks   away  from    it  at   all   the 


I08  FERRAGUS 

thousand  other  points  of  the  social  circumference. 
Moreover,  she  only  lets  one  trait  of  her  character  be 
known,  the  only  one  which  renders  her  blamable; 
her  fine  virtues  are  hidden;  in  her  naive  shame- 
lessness  she  glories.  Incompletely  rendered  in 
dramas  and  tales  in  which  she  is  put  upon  the  scene 
with  all  her  poesy,  she  is  nowhere  really  true  but 
in  her  garret,  because  she  is  always  calumniated  or 
over-praised  elsewhere.  Rich,  she  deteriorates; 
poor,  she  is  misunderstood.  And  this  could  not  be 
otherwise!  She  has  too  many  vices  and  too  many 
good  qualities;  she  is  too  near  to  a  sublime  asphyx- 
iation or  to  a  degrading  laugh;  she  is  too  beautiful 
and  too  hideous;  she  personifies  too  well  Paris,  to 
which  she  furnishes  the  toothless  portresses,  the 
washwomen,  the  char-women,  beggars,  occasionally 
insolent  countesses,  admired  actresses,  applauded 
singers;  she  has  even  given  in  the  olden  time  two 
quasi-Queens  to  the  monarchy.  Who  can  grasp 
such  a  Proteus  ?  She  is  all  woman,  less  than  wo- 
man, more  than  woman.  From  this  vast  portrait 
the  painter  of  manners  can  take  but  certain  details, 
the  ensemble  is  the  infinite.  She  was  a  grisette  of 
Paris,  but  the  grisette  in  all  her  splendor ;  the  grisette 
in  a  hackney-coach,  happy,  young,  handsome,  fresh, 
but  a  grisette  with  claws,  with  scissors,  impudent 
as  a  Spanish  woman,  quarrelsome  as  a  prudish  Eng- 
lish woman  proclaiming  her  conjugal  rights,  coquet- 
tish as  a  great  lady,  moreover  frank  and  ready  for 
everything;  a.rea.\Honne  issuing  from  the  little  apart- 
ment of  which  she  had  so  often  dreamed,  with  its  red 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  IO9 

calico  curtains,  its  Utrecht  velvet-covered  furniture, 
the  tea-table,  the  cabinet  of  china  with  painted 
designs,  the  sofa,  the  little  moquette  carpet,  the  ala- 
baster clock  and  candlesticks  under  glass,  the  yellow 
bed-room,  the  eider-down  quilt, — in  short  all  the  joys 
of  a  grisette's  life ;  the  housekeeper,  a  former  grisette 
herself  but  a  grisette  with  mustaches  and  chevrons; 
the  theatre  parties,  the  marrons  unlimited,  the  silk 
dresses,  the  bonnets  to  spoil;  in  short,  all  the  felic- 
ities imagined  over  the  counter  of  the  modiste, 
except  the  carriage,  which  only  appears  in  the 
dreams  of  the  counter  as  a  marshal's  baton  does  in 
those  of  a  soldier.  Yes,  this  grisette  had  all  these 
things  in  return  for  a  true  affection,  or  in  spite  of  a 
true  affection,  as  some  others  obtain  it  for  an  hour 
a  day, — a  sort  of  tax  carelessly  paid  under  the  claws 
of  an  old  man.  The  young  woman  who  was  now 
in  the  presence  of  Monsieur  and  Madame  Jules  had 
a  foot  so  uncovered  in  her  shoe  that  only  a  slim 
black  line  was  visible  between  the  carpet  and  her 
white  stocking.  This  peculiar  footgear,  which  the 
Parisian  caricature  has  so  well  rendered,  is  a  spe- 
cial attribute  of  the  Parisian  grisette;  but  she  is 
still  better  revealed  to  the  eyes  of  an  observer  by 
the  care  with  which  her  garments  are  made  to  ad- 
here to  her  form,  which  they  clearly  define.  Thus 
the  unknown  was,  not  to  lose  the  picturesque 
expression  invented  by  the  French  soldier,  tied  into 
a  greenish  dress  with  a  yoke  which  revealed  the 
beauty  of  her  corsage  perfectly  visible;  for  her 
shawl  of  Ternaux  cashmere,  fallen  to  the  floor,  was 


no  FERRAGUS 

only  retained  by  the  two  corners  which  she  held 
twisted  around  her  wrists.  She  had  a  delicate  face, 
rosy  cheeks,  a  clear  skin,  sparkling  gray  eyes,  a 
round  and  very  prominent  forehead,  hair  carefully 
smoothed  which  escaped  from  under  her  little  bon- 
net in  heavy  curls  upon  her  neck. 

"My  name  is  Ida,  Monsieur.  And  if  that  is 
Madame  Jules  to  whom  I  have  the  advantage  of 
speaking,  I've  come  to  tell  her  all  I  have  in  my 
heart  against  her.  It  is  very  wrong  when  one  is 
set  up  and  when  one  is  in  her  furniture,  as  you  are 
here,  to  wish  to  take  away  from  a  poor  girl  a  man 
with  whom  I  am  as  good  as  married,  morally,  and 
who  talks  of  repairing  his  wrongs  by  marrying  me 
before  the  Municipality.  There  are  plenty  of  hand- 
some young  men  in  the  world,  ain't  there,  Mon- 
sieur.? to  please  her  fancies  without  wishing  to 
take  from  me  a  man  of  middle-age  who  makes  my 
happiness.  Quien!  I  haven't  got  a  fine  hotel,  I — 
I  have  my  love!  I  hate  handsome  men  and  money, 
I'm  all  heart,  and — " 

Madame  Jules  turned  to  her  husband: 

"You  will  allow  me.  Monsieur,  not  to  hear  any 
more  of  this,"  she  said,  re-entering  her  bedroom. 

"If  that  lady  lives  with  you,  I  have  made  a  mess 
of  it,  I  see;  but  so  much  the  worser, "  resumed  Ida. 
"Why  does  she  come  to  see  Monsieur  Ferragus 
every  day? " 

"You  deceive  yourself.  Mademoiselle,"  said  Jules 
stupefied.     "My  wife  is  incapable — " 

"Ha,  so  you  are  married — you  two!"  said  the 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  ill 

grisette,  showing  some  surprise.  "Then  it  is  much 
worse,  Monsieur,  isn't  it,  for  a  woman  who  has  the 
happiness  of  being  married  in  legal  marriage  to 
have  relations  with  a  man  like  Henri — " 

"But  what,  Henri?"  said  Jules,  taking  Ida  and 
leading  her  into  an  adjoining  room  that  his  wife 
might  hear  no  more. 

"Why,  Monsieur  Ferragus — " 

"But  he  is  dead,"  said  Jules. 

"Nonsense!  I  went  to  Franconi's  with  him  yes- 
terday evening  and  he  brought  me  home,  as  he 
should.  Besides,  your  wife  can  give  you  news  of 
him.  Didn't  she  go  to  see  him  at  three  o'clock.? 
1  know  she  did;  I  waited  for  her  in  the  street,  all 
because  that  good-natured  man,  Monsieur  Justin, 
whom  you  know  perhaps,  a  little  old  man  with 
seals,  who  wears  corsets,  warned  me  that  I  had 
Madame  Jules  for  a  rival.  That  name,  Monsieur, 
is  well  known  among  the  fictitious  ones.  Excuse  me 
since  it  is  yours,  but  if  Madame  Jules  was  a  Duch- 
ess of  the  Court,  Henri  is  so  rich  that  he  could  sat- 
isfy all  her  fancies.  My  business  is  to  protect  my 
property,  and  I  have  the  right  to;  for  love  him, 
Henri,  1  do.  He's  my  first  inclination,  and  it  con- 
cerns my  happiness  and  all  my  future  fate.  I  fear 
nothing,  Monsieur;  I  am  honest  and  I  have  never 
lied  nor  stolen  the  property  of  any  living  soul.  If 
it  was  an  Empress  who  was  my  rival  I'd  go  straight 
to  her;  and  if  she  carried  away  my  future  husband 
I  feel  capable  of  killing  her,  all  empress  as  she  was, 
because  all  pretty  women  are  equals,  Monsieur, — " 


112  FERRAGUS 

"Enough,  enough,"  said  Jules.  "Where  do  you 
live?" 

"Rue  de  la  Corderie-du-Temple,  No.  14,  Mon- 
sieur. Ida  Gruget,  corset-maker  at  your  service, 
for  we  make  lots  of  corsets  for  men." 

"And  where  does  he  live,  the  man  whom  you 
call  Ferragus?  " 

"But,  Monsieur,"  said  she  pursing  up  her  lips, 
"in  the  first  place  he's  not  a  man.  He's  a  mon- 
sieur, much  richer  than  you  are,  perhaps.  But 
why  do  you  ask  me  his  address,  when  your  wife 
knows  it.''  He  told  me  not  to  give  it.  Am  I  obliged 
to  answer  youi* — I  am  not,  thank  God,  neither  in  a 
confessional  nor  a  police  court,  and  I'm  responsible 
only  to  myself." 

"And  if  I  were  to  offer  you  twenty,  thirty,  forty 
thousand  francs  to  tell  me  where  Monsieur  Ferragus 
lives? " 

"O !  no,  O  no,  my  little  friend,  and  that  ends  the 
matter!  "  she  said,  emphasizing  this  singular  reply 
with  a  popular  gesture.  "There  is  no  sum  that 
would  make  me  tell  that.  I  have  the  honor  to  bid 
you  good  day.     How  does  one  get  out  of  here? " 

Jules,  overwhelmed,  allowed  Ida  to  depart  with- 
out thinking  further  of  her.  The  whole  world 
seemed  to  crumble  beneath  his  feet;  and  over  his 
head  the  heavens  were  falling  in  fragments. 

"Monsieur  is  served,"  said  his  valet. 

The  valet  and  the  footman  waited  in  the  dining- 
room  a  quarter  of  an  hour  without  seeing  their  mas- 
ter or  mistress. 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  II3 

"Madame  will  not  dine  to-day, "  said  the  waiting- 
maid,  coming  in. 

"What's  the  matter,  Josephine  ? "  asked  the  valet 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "Madame  is 
crying,  and  is  going  to  bed.  Monsieur  has  no  doubt 
some  affair  on  hand  in  the  city,  and  it  has  been 
discovered  at  a  very  bad  time,  do  you  understand.^ 
I  wouldn't  answer  for  Madame's  life.  Men  are  so 
clumsy!  They're  always  making  scenes  without 
any  precaution." 

"That's  not  so,"  replied  the  valet  in  a  low  voice, 
"on  the  contrary  it  is  Madame  who, — you  under- 
stand.-' What  time  does  Monsieur  have  to  go  after 
pleasure,  he  who  for  five  years  hasn't  slept  out  of 
Madame's  room  once;  who  goes  to  his  office  at  ten 
o'clock  and  only  leaves  it  at  noon  for  dejeuner.-' 
His  life  is  all  known,  it  is  regular,  while  Madame 
goes  out  nearly  every  day  at  three  o'clock,  no  one 
knows  where." 

"And  Monsieur,  too,"  said  the  maid  taking  her 
mistress's  part. 

' '  But  Monsieur  goes  straight  to  the  Bourse.  Here's 
three  times  that  I've  told  him  that  dinner  was 
ready,"  continued  the  valet  after  a  pause,  "and  you 
might  as  well  speak  to  a  post." 

Jules  entered. 

"Where  is  Madame.?"  he  inquired. 

"Madame  is  going  to  bed,  her  head  aches,"  re- 
plied the  maid,  assuming  an  air  of  importance. 

Jules  then  said  very  composedly,  addressing  his 
domestics : 
8 


114  FERRAGUS 

"You  can  take  it  all  away,  I  shall  go  and  sit  with 
Madame." 

And  he  returned  to  his  wife's  room,  where  he 
found  her  weeping  but  endeavoring  to  smother  her 
sobs  in  her  handkerchief. 

"Why  do  you  weep?"  said  Jules  to  her.  "You 
need  expect  from  me  neither  violence  nor  reproaches. 
Why  should  I  avenge  myself  ?  If  you  have  not  been 
faithful  to  my  love,  it  is  that  you  were  never 
worthy  of  it — " 

"Not  worthy!" 

These  words  repeated  made  themselves  heard 
through  her  sobs,  and  the  accent  in  which  they 
were  said  would  have  moved  any  other  man  than 
Jules. 

"To  kill  you,  it  would  be  necessary  to  love  more 
than  perhaps  I  do,"  he  continued;  "but  I  should 
never  have  the  courage,  I  would  kill  myself  rather, 
leaving  you  to  your — happiness,  and  to — to  whom  ? ' ' 

He  did  not  end  his  sentence. 

"Kill  yourself!"  cried  Clemence,  flinging  herself 
at  the  feet  of  Jules  and  clasping  them. 

But  he,  wishing  to  escape  this  embrace,  tried  to 
shake  her  off,  dragging  her  in  so  doing  toward  the 
bed. 

"Let  me  alone,"  he  said. 

"No,  no!  Jules,"  she  cried.  "If  you  love  me  no 
longer  I  shall  die.     Do  you  wish  to  know  all  ? " 

"Yes." 

He  took  her,  grasped  her  violently,  and  sat  down 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed  holding  her  between  his  legs; 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  1 15 

then  looking  with  a  dry  eye  at  that  beautiful  face, 
now  red  as  fire  though  furrowed  with  tears : 

"Now  speak,"  he  said. 

Clemence's  sobs  began  again. 

"No,  it  is  a  secret  of  life  and  death.     If  I  tell  it, 
I — No  I  cannot.     Have  mercy,  Jules!  " 

"You  are  still  deceiving  me — " 

"Yes,  Jules  you  may  think  that  I  am  deceiving 
you,  but  soon  you  will  know  all." 

"But  this  Ferragus,  this  convict,  whom  you  go  to 
see,  this  man  enriched  by  crime,  if  he  does  not 
belong  to  you,  if  you  do  not  belong  to  him — " 

"Oh  Jules!—" 

"Well,  is  he  your  mysterious  benefactor,  the 
man  to  whom  we  owe  our  fortune,  as  has  already 
been  said  ? ' ' 

"Who  said  that?" 

"A  man  whom  I  killed  in  a  duel." 

"Oh,  God!  one  death  already." 

"If  he  is  not  your  protector,  if  he  does  not  give 
you  money,  if  it  is  you  who  carry  it  to  him,  tell 
me,  is  he  your  brother  ?  " 

"What  if  he  were?"  she  said. 

Monsieur  Desmarets  crossed  his  arms. 

"Why  should  that  have  been  concealed  from 
me? "  he  resumed.  "Then  you  have  both  deceived 
me,  your  mother  and  you?  Besides,  does  a  woman 
go  to  see  her  brother  every  day  or  nearly  every 
day,  eh?" 

His  wife  had  fainted  at  his  feet. 

"Dead,"  he  said.     "And  if  I  were  mistaken? " 


Il6  FERRAGUS 

He  sprang  to  the  bell  rope,  called  Josephine,  and 
lifted  Clemence  to  the  bed. 

"I  shall  die  of  it,"  said  Madame  Jules,  recover- 
ing consciousness. 

"Josephine,"  cried  Monsieur  Desmarets,  "send 
for  Monsieur  Desplein.  Then  you  will  go  to  my 
brother  and  ask  him  to  come  here  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble. ' ' 

"Why  your  brother?"  asked  Clemence. 

Jules  had  already  left  the  room. 


* 

For  the  first  time  in  five  years  Madame  Jules 
slept  alone  in  her  bed,  and  was  compelled  to  admit 
a  physician  into  that  sacred  chamber.  These  in 
themselves  were  two  keen  pangs.  Desplein  found 
Madame  Jules  very  ill,  never  had  a  violent  emotion 
been  more  untimely.  He  would  not  say  anything 
definite,  and  postponed  his  opinion  until  the  mor- 
row, after  leaving  a  few  directions  which  were  not 
carried  out,  the  emotions  of  the  heart  causing  all 
bodily  cares  to  be  forgotten.  When  morning 
dawned  Clemence  had  not  yet  slept.  She  was 
absorbed  in  the  low  murmur  of  a  conversation 
which  lasted  several  hours  between  the  two 
brothers;  but  the  thickness  of  the  walls  allowed  no 
word  which  could  betray  the  object  of  this  long 
conference  to  reach  her  ears.  Monsieur  Desmarets, 
the  notary,  went  away  at  last  The  stillness  of  the 
night  and  the  singular  activity  of  the  senses  given 
by  strong  emotion  enabled  Clemence  to  distinguish 
the  scratching  of  a  pen  and  the  involuntary  move- 
ments of  a  man  engaged  in  writing.  Those  who 
are  habitually  up  at  night  and  who  observe  the 
different  acoustic  effects  produced  in  absolute 
silence  know  that  often  a  slight  echo  can  be  readily 
perceived  in  the  same  places  where  equable  and 
continued  murmurs  are  not  distinct.  At  four  o'clock 
the   sound    ceased.     Clemence    rose,    anxious   and 

(117) 


Il8  FERRAGUS 

trembling.  Then,  with  bare  feet  and  without  a 
wrapper,  forgetting  her  moistened  skin  and  her  con- 
dition, the  poor  woman  opened  softly  the  door  with- 
out making  any  noise.  She  saw  her  husband,  a 
pen  in  his  hand,  sound  asleep  in  his  arm-chair. 
The  candles  had  burned  to  the  sockets.  She  slowly 
advanced  and  read  on  an  envelope  already  sealed: 

THIS  IS  MY  WILL. 

She  kneeled  down  as  if  before  a  grave,  and  kissed 
the  hand  of  her  husband,  who  woke  instantly. 

"Jules,  my  dear,  they  grant  some  days  to  crim- 
inals condemned  to  death,"  she  said  looking  at  him 
with  eyes  lit  up  with  fever  and  with  love.  "Your 
innocent  wife  only  asks  for  two.  Leave  me  free 
for  two  days,  and — wait!  After  that  I  shall  die 
happy, — at  least  you  will  regret  me." 

"Clemence,  I  grant  them." 

And  then,  as  she  kissed  her  husband's  hand  in  a 
touching  transport  of  her  heart,  Jules,  under  the 
spell  of  this  cry  of  innocence,  took  her  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead,  thoroughly  ashamed 
to  feel  himself  still  under  the  power  of  this  noble 
beauty. 

On  the  morrow,  after  taking  a  few  hours'  rest, 
Jules  entered  his  wife's  room,  obeying  mechanic- 
ally his  custom  of  not  leaving  the  house  without 
seeing  her.  Clemence  was  asleep.  A  ray  of  light 
passing  through  a  chink  in  the  upper  blind  of  the 
windows  fell   on  the  face    of   this    overburdened 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  II9 

woman.  Already  suffering  had  impaired  her  fore- 
head and  the  fresh  redness  of  her  lips.  A  lover's 
eye  could  not  mistake  the  appearance  of  dark 
blotches  and  a  sickly  pallor  which  had  replaced  the 
uniform  tone  of  the  cheeks  and  the  smooth  white- 
ness of  the  skin,  two  pure  pages  on  which  were 
revealed  so  artlessly  the  sentiments  of  this  beautiful 
soul. 

"She  suffers,"  thought  Jules.  "Poor  Clemence, 
may  God  protect  us !  " 

He  kissed  her  very  softly  on  the  forehead.  She 
woke,  saw  her  husband  and  remembered  all ;  but, 
unable  to  speak,  she  took  his  hand  and  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

"I  am  innocent,"  said  she,  ending  her  dream. 

"You  will  not  go  out  to-day?  "  asked  Jules. 

"No,  1  feel  too  weak  to  leave  my  bed." 

"If  you  should  change  your  mind,  wait  till  I 
return,"  said  Jules. 

Then  he  went  down  to  the  porter's  lodge. 

"Fouquereau,  you  will  watch  your  door  to-day 
closely,  I  wish  to  know  exactly  who  comes  to  the 
house  and  who  leaves  it." 

Then  he  threw  himself  into  a  hackney-coach, 
caused  himself  to  be  driven  to  the  Hotel  de  Maulin- 
cour  and  there  asked  for  the  baron. 

"Monsieur  is  ill,"  he  was  told. 

Jules  insisted  on  entering,  gave  his  name;  and, 
if  he  could  not  see  Monsieur  de  Maulincour,  he 
wished  to  see  the  vidame  or  the  dowager.  He 
waited  some  time  in  the  salon  of  the  old  baroness, 


I20  FERRAGUS 

who  came  to  see  him  and  told  him  that  her  grand- 
son was  much  too  ill  to  receive  him. 

"I  know,  Madame,"  replied  Jules,  "the  nature  of 
his  illness  from  the  letter  which  you  did  me  the 
honor  to  write  to  me,  and  I  beg  you  to  believe — " 

"A  letter  to  you.  Monsieur!  written  by  me!" 
cried  the  dowager,  interrupting  him;  "but  I  have 
written  no  letter.  And  what  was  I  made  to  say. 
Monsieur,  in  that  letter  ?  " 

"Madame,"  replied  Jules,  "intending  to  see 
Monsieur  de  Maulincour  to-day  and  to  return  you 
this  letter  I  thought  it  best  to  preserve  it  in  spite  of 
the  injunction  with  which  it  ends.     There  it  is." 

The  dowager  rang  for  her  spectacles,  and  the  mo- 
ment she  cast  her  eyes  on  the  paper  she  exhibited 
the  greatest  surprise. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said,  "my  writing  is  so  per- 
fectly imitated  that  if  the  matter  were  not  so  recent 
I  might  be  deceived  myself.  My  grandson  is  ill,  it 
is  true.  Monsieur;  but  his  reason  has  never  been 
the  least  bit  in  the  world  affected.  We  are  the 
puppets  of  some  evil  persons;  and  yet  I  cannot 
imagine  the  object  of  this  impertinence. — You  shall 
see  my  grandson,  Monsieur,  and  you  will  at  once 
perceive  that  he  is  perfectly  sound  in  his  mind." 

And  she  rang  the  bell  again  and  sent  to  ask  if  the 
baron  could  receive  Monsieur  Desmarets.  The 
valet  returned  with  an  affirmative  answer.  Jules 
ascended  to  the  apartment  of  Auguste  de  Maulin- 
cour, whom  he  found  seated  in  an  arm-chair  near 
the  fire,  and  who,  too  feeble  to  rise,  saluted  him 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  121 

with  a  melancholy  gesture;  the  Vidame  de  Pamiers 
was  sitting  with  him. 

"Monsieur  le  Baron,"  said  Jules,  "I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  you  of  such  a  nature  as  to  make  it 
desirable  that  we  should  be  alone," 

"Monsieur,"  replied  Auguste,  "Monsieur  leCom- 
mandeur  knows  all  about  this  affair  and  you  can 
speak  fearlessly  before  him." 

"Monsieur  le  Baron,"  resumed  Jules  in  a  grave 
voice,  "you  have  troubled,  well  nigh  destroyed 
my  happiness,  without  having  any  right  to  do  so. 
Until  the  moment  when  we  shall  be  able  to  see 
which  of  us  should  demand  or  should  grant  repara- 
tion to  the  other  you  are  bound  to  help  me  in  fol- 
lowing the  dark  and  mysterious  path  into  which 
you  have  flung  me.  I  have  now  come  to  ascertain 
from  you  the  present  residence  of  the  mysterious 
being  who  exercises  such  a  fearful  influence  on  our 
destinies  and  who  seems  to  have  at  his  orders  a 
supernatural  power.  On  my  return  home  yester- 
day, after  hearing  your  statements,  I  received  this 
letter." 

And  Jules  handed  him  the  forged  letter. 

"This  Ferragus,  this  Bourignard,  or  this  Mon- 
sieur de  Funcal,  is  a  demon!"  cried  Maulincour 
after  having  read  it.  "Into  what  a  frightful  maze 
have  I  put  my  foot?  Where  am  I  going? — I  did 
wrong.  Monsieur,"  he  added  looking  at  Jules;  "but 
death  is  certainly  the  greatest  of  all  expiations,  and 
my  death  is  approaching.  You  can  then  ask  me 
whatever  you  desire,  I  am  at  your  orders." 


122  FERRAGUS 

"Monsieur,  you  should  know  where  this  unknown 
lives,  I  wish  positively  to  penetrate  this  mystery, 
even  if  it  should  cost  me  my  whole  fortune;  and  in 
presence  of  an  enemy  so  cruelly  intelligent  every 
moment  is  precious." 

"Justin  shall  tell  you  all,"  replied  the  baron. 

At  these  words  the  Commander  fidgeted  in  his 
chair. 

Auguste  rang  the  bell. 

"Justin  is  not  in  the  house,"  cried  the  vidame 
with  a  hastiness  that  revealed  much. 

"Well  then,"  said  Auguste  excitedly,  "the  other 
servants  must  know  where  he  is,  send  a  man  on 
horseback  to  fmd  him.  Your  valet  is  in  Paris,  isn't 
he  ?     He  can  be  found. " 

The  Commander  was  visibly  distressed. 

"Justin  cannot  come,  my  dear  boy,"  said  the  old 
man.  "He  is  dead.  I  wished  to  conceal  this  acci- 
dent from  you,  but — " 

"Dead!  "  cried  Monsieur  de  Maulincour,  "dead.? 
And  when?     And  how?" 

"Last  night.  He  had  been  supping  with  some 
old  friends  and  was  doubtless  drunk;  his  friends, 
as  full  of  wine  as  he,  left  him  lying  in  the  street 
A  heavy  vehicle  ran  over  him — " 

"The  convict  did  not  miss  him.  At  the  first 
stroke  he  killed  him,"  said  Auguste.  "He  has  not 
been  so  lucky  with  me,  he  has  been  obliged  to  try 
four  times." 

Jules  became  gloomy  and  thoughtful. 

"I  shall  not  know  anything,  then,"  he  cried  after 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  1 23 

a  long  pause.  "Your  valet  has  perhaps  been  justly- 
punished!  Did  he  not  exceed  your  orders  in  calum- 
niating Madame  Desmarets  to  a  person  named  Ida, 
whose  jealousy  he  roused  in  order  to  turn  her  loose 
upon  us." 

"Ah!  Monsieur  in  my  anger  I  abandoned  Madame 
Jules  to  him." 

"Monsieur!"  cried  the  husband,  keenly  irri- 
tated. 

"Oh!  at  present,  Monsieur,"  replied  the  officer 
claiming  silence  by  a  gesture  of  the  hand,  "I  am 
ready  for  all.  You  cannot  make  any  better  that 
which  is  already  done,  and  you  cannot  tell  me  any- 
thing that  my  own  conscience  has  not  already  said 
to  me.  I  am  now  expecting  this  morning  the  most 
celebrated  of  professors  of  toxicology,  in  order  to 
learn  my  fate.  If  I  am  doomed  to  intolerable  suffer- 
ing, my  resolution  is  taken,  I  shall  blow  out  my 
brains." 

"You  talk  like  a  child,"  cried  the  Commander, 
horrified  by  the  coolness  with  which  the  baron  said 
these  words.  "Your  grandmother  would  die  of 
grief." 

"Then,  Monsieur,"  said  Jules,  "there  is  no 
means  of  discovering  in  what  part  of  Paris  this 
extraordinary  man  resides?" 

"I  think.  Monsieur,"  replied  the  old  man,  "from 
what  I  have  heard  poor  Justin  say,  that  Monsieur 
de  Funcal  lived  at  the  Portuguese  Embassy  or  at  that 
of  Brazil.  Monsieur  de  Funcal  is  a  gentleman  who 
belongs  to  both  those  countries.    As  for  the  convict, 


124  FERRAGUS 

he  is  dead  and  buried.  Your  persecutor,  whoever 
he  is,  seems  to  me  so  powerful  that  it  would  be  well 
for  you  to  accept  him  under  his  new  shape  until  the 
moment  when  you  will  have  the  power  of  confound- 
ing and  of  crushing  him ;  but  act  with  prudence, 
my  dear  Monsieur.  If  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  had 
followed  my  advice,  nothing  of  all  this  would  have 
happened." 

Jules  retired  coldly  but  with  politeness,  and  now 
knew  of  no  means  to  take  to  reach  Ferragus.  As 
he  passed  into  his  own  house  his  concierge  told  him 
that  Madame  had  gone  out  to  throw  a  letter  into  the 
post  box  at  the  head  of  the  Rue  de  Menars.  Jules 
felt  himself  humiliated  at  this  proof  of  the  great 
intelligence  with  which  his  concierge  espoused  his 
cause  and  the  cleverness  with  which  he  guessed  the 
way  to  serve  him.  The  zealousness  of  servants 
and  their  peculiar  skill  in  compromising  masters 
who  compromise  themselves,  were  known  to  him, 
the  danger  of  having  them  for  accomplices,  no  mat- 
ter for  what  purpose,  he  fully  appreciated;  but  he 
could  not  think  of  his  personal  dignity  until  the 
moment  when  he  found  himself  thus  suddenly 
degraded.  What  a  triumph  for  the  slave  incapable 
of  raising  himself  to  his  master,  to  bring  down  his 
master  to  his  own  level !  Jules  was  harsh  and  hard. 
Another  fault.  But  he  suffered  so  deeply!  His 
life,  till  this  moment  so  upright,  so  pure,  was 
becoming  crooked,  and  he  was  obliged  now  to 
scheme  and  to  lie.  And  Clemence  also  lied  and 
schemed.     It  was  a  moment  of  immense  disgust 


CHIEF  OF  THE   DEVORANTS  12$ 

Lost  in  an  abyss  of  bitter  thoughts,  Jules  stood 
mechanically  motionless  at  the  door  of  his  house. 
At  one  moment,  yielding  to  his  despair,  he  thought 
of  fleeing,  of  leaving  France,  carrying  with  his  love 
all  the  illusions  of  uncertainty.  Then,  not  doubting 
that  the  letter  thrown  into  the  post  box  by  Clem- 
ence  was  addressed  to  Ferragus,  he  searched  for  a 
means  of  gaining  possession  of  the  answer  which 
that  mysterious  being  would  send.  Then,  in  ana- 
lyzing the  singular  good  fortune  of  his  life  since  his 
marriage,  he  asked  himself  whether  the  calumny 
for  which  he  had  taken  such  signal  vengeance  was 
not  a  truth.  Finally,  reverting  to  the  coming 
answer  from  Ferragus,  he  said  to  himself: 

"But  this  man  so  profoundly  capable,  so  logical 
in  his  least  acts,  who  sees,  who  foresees,  who  calcu- 
lates and  divines  our  very  thoughts,  this  Ferragus, 
is  he  likely  to  send  an  answer?  Will  he  not  be 
more  likely  to  employ  some  other  means  more  in 
keeping  with  his  power.?  Will  he  not  send  his 
answer  by  some  skilful  rascal,  or  perhaps  in  a 
package  brought  by  some  honest  man  who  does  not 
suspect  what  he  brings,  or  in  some  parcel  of  shoes 
which  a  shop-girl  may  innocently  deliver  to  my 
wife  ?  If  Clemence  and  he  have  some  understand- 
ing between  them?" 

And  he  distrusted  everything,  and  his  mind  ran 
over  the  immense  fields,  the  shoreless  oceans,  of 
conjecture;  then,  after  having  floated  for  a  time 
among  a  thousand  contradictory  ideas,  he  felt  he 
was  strongest  in  his  own  house,  and  he  resolved 


126  FERRAGUS 

to  keep  watch  in  it  as  an  ant-lion  does  at  the  bottom 
of  his  sandy  labyrinth. 

"Fouquereau,"  he  said  to  his  concierge,  "I  am 
not  at  home  to  any  one  who  comes  to  see  me.  If 
any  one  wishes  to  see  Madame  or  brings  anything 
for  her,  you  will  ring  twice.  And  you  will  bring 
me  all  letters  that  are  addressed  here,  no  matter  for 
whom  they  are  intended. — Thus,"  bethought  as  he 
mounted  to  his  study  which  was  in  the  entresol,  "  I 
will  foil  the  schemes  of  Maiter  Ferragus.  If  he 
sends  some  messenger  clever  enough  to  ask  for  me, 
so  as  to  find  out  if  Madame  is  alone,  at  least  I  shall 
not  be  tricked  like  a  fool." 

He  concealed  himself  in  the  windows  of  his  study 
which  looked  out  on  the  street  and  then  by  a  final 
scheme  inspired  by  jealousy  he  resolved  to  send 
his  head  clerk  in  his  own  carriage  to  the  Bourse,  in 
his  place,  with  a  letter  to  another  broker,  one  of 
his  friends,  in  which  he  explained  his  purchases 
and  sales  and  requested  him  to  attend  to  them  for 
that  day.  He  postponed  his  more  delicate  transac- 
tions till  the  morrow,  careless  of  the  fall  or  rise  of 
stocks  and  of  the  debts  of  all  Europe.  High  privi- 
lege of  love!  it  crushes  all  things,  everything  pales 
before  it, — the  altar,  the  throne,  and  the  consols. 
At  half-past  three  o'clock,  just  at  the  hour  in  which 
the  Bourse  is  in  full  blast  of  reports,  monthly  settle- 
ments, premiums,  leases,  etc.,  Jules  saw  Fouquereau 
enter  his  study,  quite  radiant. 

"Monsieur,  an  old  woman  has  just  come,  but  take 
carCy    I    think    she's   a   sly   one.      She   asked  for 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  127 

Monsieur,  seemed  much  annoyed  not  to  find  him  in, 
then  she  gave  me  a  letter  for  Madame,  and  here 
it  is." 

In  a  feverish  anxiety  Jules  tore  open  the  letter ; 
then  he  fell  into  his  chair  overcome.  The  letter 
was  mere  nonsense  throughout  and  it  would  have 
required  a  key  to  read  it.     It  was  written  in  cipher. 

"You  can  go,  Fouquereau. " 

The  concierge  went  out 

"It  is  a  mystery,  deeper  than  the  sea  where  there 
are  no  soundings.  Ah!  it  must  be  love,  love  only 
is  so  sagacious,  so  ingenious,  as  this  correspondent. 
My  God!  I  shall  kill  Clemence. " 

At  this  moment  a  happy  idea  flashed  through  his 
brain  with  such  brilliancy  that  he  felt  almost  physi- 
cally illuminated  by  it.  In  the  days  of  his  toil- 
some poverty,  before  his  marriage,  Jules  had  made 
for  himself  a  true  friend,  a  half  Pemeja.  The  ex- 
treme delicacy  with  which  he  had  managed  the 
susceptibilities  of  a  man  both  poor  and  modest,  the 
respect  with  which  he  had  surrounded  him,  the 
ingenious  address  with  which  he  had  nobly  com- 
pelled him  to  share  his  own  opulence  without  per- 
mitting him  to  blush  at  it,  increased  their  friend- 
ship. Jacquet  continued  faithful  to  Desmarets  in 
spite  of  his  wealth. 

Jacquet,  an  upright  man,  a  toiler,  austere  in  his 
morals,  had  slowly  made  his  way  in  that  particular 
ministry  which  develops  at  the  same  time  the 
greatest  knavery  and  the  greatest  honesty.  Hold- 
ing a  situation  in  the  Ministry  of  Foreign  Affairs, 


X 


128  FERRAGUS 

he  had  charge  of  the  most  delicate  division  of  its 
archives.  Jacquet  was  in  this  ministry  a  species 
of  glow-worm,  casting  his  light  on  the  secret  corres- 
pondence, deciphering  and  classifying  despatches. 
Placed  somewhat  higher  than  the  mere  bourgeois 
he  found  in  these  diplomatic  affairs  all  that  there 
was  of  the  highest  in  subaltern  ranks,  and  lived  in 
obscurity,  happy  in  a  retirement  which  sheltered 
him  from  reverses,  and  satisfied  to  be  able  to  pay  in 
this  humble  manner  his  debt  to  the  country. 
Hereditary  associate  in  his  mayoralty,  he  obtained, 
as  the  newspapers  express  it,  all  the  consideration 
which  was  due  him.  Thanks  to  Jules,  his  position 
had  been  ameliorated  by  a  worthy  marriage.  An 
unrecognized  patriot,  a  ministerial  one  in  fact,  he 
contented  himself  with  groaning  in  his  chimney- 
corner  over  the  course  of  the  government.  For  the 
rest,  Jacquet  was  in  his  own  household  an  easy- 
going king,  a  man  with  an  umbrella,  who  hired  for 
his  wife  a  carriage  which  he  never  entered  himself. 
In  short,  to  complete  this  sketch  of  this  philoso- 
pher without  knowing  it,  he  had  not  yet  suspected, 
and  never  would  in  all  his  life  suspect  all  the 
advantages  he  might  have  drawn  from  his  position, 
having  for  intimate  friend  a  broker  and  knowing 
every  morning  all  the  secrets  of  the  State.  This 
man,  sublime  after  the  manner  of  that  nameless 
soldier  who  died  in  saving  Napoleon  by  a  guivive, 
lived  at  the  ministry. 

In  ten  minutes  Jules  was  in  the  office  of  records, 
Jacquet  offered  him  a  chair,  placed  methodically  on 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  1 29 

the  table  his  green  taffeta  eye-shade,  rubbed  his 
hands,  took  up  his  snuff-box,  stretched  himself  till 
his  shoulder  blades  cracked,  swelled  out  his  chest, 
and  said: 

"What  chance  brings  you  here,  Mosieur  Des- 
marets  ?     What  do  you  want  with  me  ?  " 

"  Jacquet,  I  have  need  of  you  to  decipher  a  secret, 
a  secret  of  life  and  death." 

"It  doesn't  concern  politics?" 

"If  it  did,  I  shouldn't  come  to  you  for  informa- 
tion," said  Jules.  "No,  it  is  a  family  matter,  con- 
cerning which  1  require  of  you  the  most  profound 
silence." 

"Claude- Joseph  Jacquet,  dumb  by  profession. 
You  are  not  acquainted  with  me,  then.?"  he  said 
laughing.     "Discretion  is  my  lot." 

Jules  showed  him  the  letter  saying  to  him: 

"You  must  read  me  this  letter  addressed  to  my 
wife — " 

"The  devil,  the  devil,  a  bad  business,"  said 
Jacquet,  examining  the  letter  as  a  usurer  examines 
a  note  to  be  negotiated.  "Ah!  that's  d.  gridiron 
letter.     Wait  a  minute." 

He  left  Jules  alone  in  the  office,  but  returned 
almost  immediately. 

"This  is  silliness,  my  friend!  it  is  written  with 
an  old  gridiron  used  by  the  Portuguese  ambassador, 
under  Monsieur  de  Choiseul,  at  the  time  of  the 
dismissal  of  the  Jesuits."     Here,  see. 

Jacquet    placed    upon    the   writing    a    piece    of 
paper,  cut  out  in  regular  squares  like  one  of  those 
9 


130  FERRAGUS 

paper-laces  which  the  confectioners  wrap  around 
their  sugar-plums,  and  Jules  could  then  read  with 
perfect  ease  the  words  that  were  visible  in  the 
interstices: 

Have  no  more  anxieties,  my  dear  Cle'mence,  our  happiness 
will  not  be  troubled  any  more  by  any  one,  and  your  husband 
will  lay  aside  his  suspicions.  I  cannot  come  to  see  you. 
However  ill  you  may  be,  you  must  have  the  courage  to  come; 
make  the  effort,  search  for  strength;  you  will  fmd  it  in  your 
love.  My  affection  for  you  has  induced  me  to  submit  to  the 
most  cruel  of  operations,  and  1  cannot  leave  my  bed.  I 
had  several  moxas  applied  yesterday  evening  to  the  back  of 
my  neck,  from  one  shoulder  to  the  other,  and  it  was  necessary 
to  let  them  burn  a  long  time.  You  understand  me?  But  I 
thought  of  you,  and  I  did  not  suffer  too  much.  To  baffle  all 
the  investigations  of  de  Maulincour,  who  will  notpersecute  us 
much  longer,  I  have  left  the  protecting  roof  of  the  Embassy 
and  am  now  safe  from  all  pursuit  in  the  Rue  des  Enfants- 
Rouges,  No.  12,  with  an  old  woman  named  Madame  Etienne 
Gruget,  mother  of  that  Ida  who  will  pay  dearly  for  her  silly 
prank.  Come  here  to-morrow  at  nine  in  the  morning.  I  am 
in  a  room  which  is  reached  only  by  an  interior  staircase.  Ask 
for  M.  Camuset.  Adieu  till  tomorrow.  I  kiss  your  forehead 
my  darling. 

Jacquet  looked  at  Jules  with  a  sort  of  honest 
terror  which  covered  a  true  compassion  and  uttered 
his  favorite  exclamation  in  two  separate  and  dis- 
tinct tones : 

"The  devil,  the  devil." 

"That  seems  clear  to  you,  does  it  not.?"  said 
Jules.  "Well,  there  is  in  the  depth  of  my  heart  a 
voice  which  pleads  for  my  wife,  and  which  makes 
itself  heard  above  all  the  pangs  of  jealousy.     1  shall 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  131 

endure  until  to-morrow  the  most  horrible  of  tortures ; 
but  at  least  to-morrow  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock 
I  shall  know  all,  and  I  shall  be  unhappy  or  happy 
for  the  rest  of  my  life.     Think  of  me  then,  Jacquet " 

"I  shall  be  at  your  house  to-morrow  at  eight 
o'clock.  We  will  go  there  together,  and  I  will  wait 
for  you,  if  you  like,  in  the  street  You  may  run 
some  danger,  and  you  ought  to  have  near  you  some 
devoted  person  who  will  understand  a  mere  sign 
and  whom  you  can  safely  trust.     Count  on  me." 

"Even  to  help  me  to  kill  someone?" 

"The  devil,  the  devil!"  said  Jacquet,  quickly, 
repeating,  as  it  were,  the  same  musical  note,  "I 
have  two  children  and  a  wife — " 

Jules  pressed  the  hand  of  Claude-Jacquet  and 
went  away.     But  he  returned  precipitately. 

"I  forgot  the  letter,"  he  said,  "but  that's  not  all, 
it  must  be  resealed. " 

"The  devil,  the  devil!  you  opened  it  without 
saving  the  seal,  but  the  impression  is  luckily  deep 
enough.  There,  leave  it  with  me,  and  I  will  bring 
it  to  you  secundum  scripturam." 

"At  what  time.?" 

"At  half- past  five—" 

"If  I  am  not  yet  in,  just  give  it  to  the  concierge 
and  tell  him  to  send  it  up  to  Madame." 

"Do  you  want  me  to-morrow?" 

"No,  adieu." 

Jules  arrived  promptly  at  the  Place  de  la  Rotonde- 
du-Temple,  he  left  his  cabriolet  there  and  went  on 
foot  to  Rue  des  Enfants-Rouges,  where  he  examined 


132  FERRAGUS 

the  house  of  Madame  dtienne  Gruget  There  would 
be  cleared  up  the  mystery  on  which  depended  the 
fate  of  so  many  persons ;  Ferragus  was  there,  and 
to  Ferragus  led  all  the  threads  of  this  strange 
intrigue.  The  coming  together  of  Madame  Jules, 
of  her  husband  and  of  this  man,  would  it  not  be  the 
Gordian  knot  of  this  already  bloody  drama,  and  for 
which  the  blade  would  not  be  wanting  that  should 
cut  the  most  intricate  ties? 

This  house  was  one  of  those  which  belonged  to 
the  class  called  cahajoutis.  This  very  significant 
name  is  given  by  the  populace  of  Paris  to  those 
houses  which  are  built,  as  it  were,  piecemeal.  They 
are  nearly  always  buildings  originally  separate  but 
afterwards  brought  together  according  to  the  fancy 
of  the  various  proprietors  who  have  successively 
enlarged  them ;  or  they  are  houses  begun,  left  unfin- 
ished, again  built  upon,  and  finally  completed;  un- 
happy houses,  which  have  passed,  like  certain  peo- 
ples, under  several  dynasties  of  capricious  masters. 
Neither  the  floors  nor  the  windows  form  an  ensem- 
ble, to  borrow  from  the  art  of  painting  one  of  its 
most  picturesque  terms;  everything  is  in  discord, 
even  the  external  decorations.  The  cabajoutis  is 
to  Parisian  architecture  what  the  capharnailm  is  to 
the  apartments,  a  general  receptacle  in  which  all 
sorts  of  things  are  thrown  higgledy-piggledy. 

*'Madame  Etienne?"  asked  Jules  of  the  portress. 

This  portress  had  her  lodge  under  the  main  en- 
trance, in  one  of  those  species  of  chicken  coops,  a 
little  wooden  house  on  rollers,  and  sufficiently  like 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  1 33 

those  sentry  boxes  which  the  police  have  set  up  by 
all  the  stands  of  hackney-coaches. 

"Hein?"  said  the  portress,  laying  down  the 
stocking  she  was  knitting. 

In  Paris,  the  various  component  parts  which 
make  up  the  physiognomy  of  any  given  portion  of 
this  monstrous  city  are  admirably  in  keeping  with 
its  general  character.  Thus,  porter,  concierge  or 
Suisse,  whichever  name  may  be  given  to  that 
essential  muscle  of  the  Parisian  monster,  is  always 
in  conformity  with  the  neighborhood  of  which  he  is 
a  part,  and  of  which  he  is  often  an  epitome.  Lazy, 
and  with  lace  on  every  seam  of  his  coat,  the  con- 
cierge dabbles  in  stocks  on  the  Faubourg-Saint- 
Germain;  the  porter  takes  his  ease  in  the  Chaus- 
see-d'Antin;  he  reads  his  newspapers  in  the  Bourse 
quarter;  he  has  a  business  of  his  own  in  the 
Faubourg  Montmartre.  The  portress  is  a  former 
prostitute  in  the  quarter  of  prostitutes;  in  the 
Marais  she  has  morals,  is  ill-natured  and  full  of 
whims. 

On  seeing  Jules  this  portress  took  a  knife  to  stir 
the  almost  extinguished  peat  in  her  foot-warmer; 
then  she  said  to  him  : 

"You  want  Madame  Etienne,  is  it  Madame 
Etienne  Gruget? " 

"Yes,"  said  Jules  Desmarets,  assuming  a  vexed 
air. 

"Who  makes  passementerie.-"' 

"Yes." 

"Well,  then.   Monsieur,"  said  she,  issuing  from 


134  FERRAGUS 

her  cage,  laying  her  hand  on  Jules's  arm  and  leading 
him  to  the  end  of  the  long  dark  passage-way  vaulted 
like  a  cellar,  "you  will  go  up  the  second  staircase 
at  the  end  of  the  courtyard.  Do  you  see  the  win- 
dows where  there  are  the  pots  of  pinks  ?  That's 
where  Madame  j^tienne  lives." 

"Thank  you,  Madame.  Do  you  think  she  is 
alone? " 

"But  why  shouldn't  she  be  alone,  that  woman,? 
She  is  a  widow." 

Jules  hastened  up  a  very  dark  stairway,  the  steps 
of  which  were  lumpy  with  hardened  mud  left  by 
the  feet  of  those  who  came  and  went  On  the 
second  floor  he  saw  three  doors,  but  no  sign  of 
pinks.  Fortunately,  on  one  of  the  doors  the  oiliest 
and  the  darkest  of  the  three,  he  read  these  words 
written  in  chalk: 

"Ida  will  come  at  nine  o'clock  to-night." 

"This  is  the  place,"  thought  Jules. 

He  pulled  an  old  bell-cord,  black  with  age,  with 
a  handle,  and  heard  the  smothered  sound  of  a 
cracked  bell  and  the  barking  of  an  asthmatic  little 
dog.  The  way  in  which  the  sounds  manifested 
themselves  in  the  interior  announced  an  apartment 
encumbered  with  articles  which  left  no  space  for 
the  least  echo, — a  characteristic  feature  of  the  lodg- 
ings occupied  by  work-people,  by  the  humble  house- 
holds, in  which  space  and  air  are  always  lacking. 
Jules  looked  about  mechanically  for  the  pinks  and 
finally  found  them  on  the  outer  sill  of  a  sliding  win- 
dow,  between  two  filthy  drain-pipes.     Here  were 


CHIEF  OF  THE   DEVORANTS  1 35 

flowers;  here,  a  garden  two  feet  long  and  six  inches 
wide;  here,  a  wheat-ear;  here,  ail  life  epitomized, 
but  here,  afeo,  all  the  miseries  of  that  life.  A  ray 
of  light,  falling  from  heaven  as  if  by  special  favor 
on  these  shabby  flowers  and  this  superb  stalk  of 
wheat,  brought  out  in  full  distinctness  the  dust,  the 
grease,  and  that  nameless  color  peculiar  to  Parisian 
dens,  a  thousand  uncleanlinesses  which  enclosed, 
spotted  and  made  old,  the  damp  walls,  the  worm- 
eaten  baluster  of  the  stairway,  the  disjointed  win- 
dow casings  and  the  doors  originally  painted  red. 
Presently  an  old  woman's  cough  and  the  heavy 
step  of  a  woman  shuffling  painfully  along  in  list 
slippers  announced  the  mother  of  Ida  Gruget. 
This  old  woman  opened  the  door,  came  out  on  the 
landing,  raised  her  head  and  said: 

"Ah!  it's  Monsieur  Bocquillon.  Why  no.  For 
sure!  how  much  you  are  like  Monsieur  Bocquillon. 
You  are  his  brother,  perhaps.  What  can  1  do  for 
you.-*     Come  in.  Monsieur. " 

Jules  followed  this  woman  into  the  first  room 
where  he  saw  huddled  together  cages,  household 
utensils,  ovens,  furniture,  little  earthenware  dishes 
full  of  food  or  of  water  for  the  dog  and  the  cats,  a 
wooden  clock,  bed-quilts,  engravings  of  Eisen, 
heaps  of  old  iron,  all  these  things  mixed  and  tum- 
bled together  in  such  a  manner  as  to  produce  a 
most  grotesque  effect,  the  true  capharnaiJm  of  Paris, 
to  which  were  not  lacking  even  a  few  old  numbers 
•of  the  Constitiitionnel. 

Jules,   instigated  by  a  sense  of  prudence,   paid 


136  FERRAGUS 

no   attention    to  the  widow  Gruget,  who  said  to 
him: 

"Come  in  here,  Monsieur,  and  warm  yourself." 

Fearing  to  be  overheard  by  Ferragus,  Jules  asked 
himself  whether  it  would  not  be  wiser  to  conclude 
in  this  first  apartment  the  arrangement  he  had  come 
to  propose  to  the  old  woman.  A  hen  which  de- 
scended cackling  from  a  loft  roused  him  from  his 
inward  meditation.  He  came  to  a  resolution;  he 
therefore  followed  Ida's  mother  into  the  room  with 
the  fireplace,  where  they  were  accompanied  by  the 
wheezy  little  pug,  a  dumb  personage,  who  jumped 
upon  an  old  stool.  Madame  Gruget  had  displayed 
all  the  foolishness  of  semi-pauperism  when  she 
invited  her  visitor  to  warm  himself.  Her  fire-pot 
concealed  completely  two  brands  sufficiently  far 
apart.  The  skimmer  lay  on  the  ground,  the  handle 
in  the  ashes.  The  mantel-shelf,  adorned  with  a 
little  wax  Jesus  under  a  square  glass-case  bordered 
with  bluish  paper,  was  piled  with  wools,  bobbins 
and  utensils  used  in  the  making  of  trimmings. 
Jules  examined  all  the  furniture  in  the  room  with  a 
curiosity  full  of  interest,  and  showed  in  spite  of 
himself  a  secret  satisfaction. 

"Well,  Monsieur,  tell  me,  do  you  want  to  make 
an  arrangement  for  any  of  my  things? "  said  the 
widow  seating  herself  in  a  yellow  cane  arm-chair 
which  seemed  to  be  her  headquarters. 

In  it  she  kept  altogether  her  handkerchief,  her 
snuff-box,  her  knitting,  half-peeled  vegetables, 
spectacles,  a  calendar,  a  bit  of  livery  fringe  just 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  1 37 

commenced,  a  greasy  pack  of  cards,  and  two  volumes 
of  novels,  all  stuck  into  the  hollow  of  the  back. 
This  article  of  furniture,  in  which  this  old  creature 
was  floating  down  the  river  of  life,  resembled  the 
encyclopedic  bag  which  a  woman  carries  with 
her  when  she  travels  and  in  which  may  be  found  a 
compendium  of  her  household  belongings,  from  the 
portrait  of  her  husband  to  eau  de  Melisse  for  faint- 
ness,  sugar-plums  for  the  children,  and  English 
court-plaster  in  case  of  cuts. 

Jules  studied  everything.  He  looked  attentively 
at  the  yellow  visage  of  Madame  Gruget,  at  her  gray 
eyes  without  eyebrows,  deprived  of  lashes,  her 
toothless  mouth,  her  wrinkles  black-shaded,  her  cap 
of  rusty  tulle  with  ruffles  still  more  rusty,  her  cot- 
ton petticoats  full  of  holes,  her  worn-out  slippers, 
her  broken  fire-pot,  her  table  heaped  with  plates 
and  with  silks  and  with  unfinished  work  in  cotton 
and  in  wool,  in  the  midst  of  which  appeared  a 
bottle  of  wine.     Then  he  said  to  himself: 

"This  woman  has  some  passion,  some  hidden 
vice, — she  is  mine. — Madame,"  said  he  aloud, 
making  a  sign  of  intelligence  to  her,  "I  have  come 
to  order  some  trimmings  of  you — " 

Then  he  lowered  his  voice. 

"I  know,"  he  continued,  "that  you  have  with  you 
an  unknown  who  takes  the  name  of  Camuset. " 

The  old  woman  looked  at  him  suddenly,  but  with- 
out giving  the  least  sign  of  astonishment. 

"Tell  me,  can  he  overhear  us?  Consider  that 
this  is  a  question  of  a  fortune  for  you." 


138  FERRAGUS 

"Monsieur,"  she  replied,  "speak  without  fear,  I 
have  no  one  here.  But  if  I  had  anyone  up  there,  it 
would  be  impossible  for  him  to  hear  you." 

"Ah!  the  sly  old  creature,  she  knows  how  to 
answer  like  a  Norman,"  thought  Jules.  "We  shall 
be  able  to  come  to  an  agreement. — Do  not  give 
yourself  the  trouble  to  lie,  Madame,"  he  resumed. 
"In  the  first  place,  you  must  know  that  I  mean  no 
harm  to  you,  nor  to  your  lodger  ill  with  his  moxas, 
nor  to  your  daughter  Ida,  the  corset-maker,  and  friend 
of  Ferragus.  You  see,  I  know  all  about  it.  Reas- 
sure yourself,  I  am  not  of  the  police,  nor  do  I  desire 
anything  that  can  hurt  your  conscience.  A  young 
lady  will  come  here  to-morrow  between  nine  and 
ten  o'clock,  to  talk  with  the  friend  of  your  daughter, 
I  want  to  be  where  I  can  see  all  and  hear  all,  with- 
out being  seen  or  heard  by  them.  You  will  furnish 
me  the  means  of  doing  so,  and  I  will  reward  this 
service  by  a  sum  of  two  thousand  francs  paid  down, 
and  a  yearly  annuity  of  six  hundred.  My  notary 
shall  prepare  the  deed  before  you  this  evening;  I 
will  put  in  his  hands  your  money,  he  will  pay  it  to 
you  to-morrow  after  the  conference  at  which  I  desire 
to  be  present  and  during  which  I  shall  acquire  proofs 
of  your  good  faith." 

"Will  that  injure  my  daughter,  my  dear  Mon- 
sieur.?" she  asked,  throwing  a  suspicious  and  cat- 
like glance  upon  him. 

"In  no  way,  Madame.  But,  moreover,  it  seems 
to  me  that  your  daughter  treats  you  pretty  badly. 
A  girl  who  is  loved  by  a  man  as  rich  and  as  powerful 


CHIEF  OF  THE   DEVORANTS  1 39 

as  Ferragus  should  find  it  easy  to  make  you  more 
comfortable  than  you  seem  to  be." 

"Ah!  my  dear  Monsieur,  not  so  much  as  one  poor 
theatre  ticket  for  the  Ambigu  or  the  Gaiete,  where 
she  can  go  as  much  as  she  likes.  It's  shameful! 
A  girl  for  whom  I  sold  my  silver  forks  and  spoons, 
and  I  now  eat,  at  my  age,  with  German  metal,  and 
all  to  pay  her  apprenticeship  and  give  her  a  trade 
where  she  could  coin  money  if  she  chose.  For,  as 
to  that,  she  takes  after  me,  she's  as  clever  as  a 
witch,  I  must  do  her  that  justice.  At  least  she 
might  give  over  to  me  her  old  silk  dresses,  I  who 
am  so  fond  of  wearing  silk.  No,  Monsieur;  she 
goes  to  the  Cadran  Bleu,  dinner  at  fifty  francs  a 
head,  rolls  in  her  carriage  like  a  princess,  and 
mocks  at  her  mother  as  though  she  were  just  noth- 
ing at  all.  Dieu  de  Dieii!  what  heedless  young 
ones  we  have  brought  into  the  world,  it  is  the  finest 
thing  that  can  be  said  about  us.  A  mother,  Mon- 
sieur, that  is  a  good  mother !  for  I  have  hidden  her 
foolishness,  and  I  have  always  kept  her  in  my 
bosom,  to  take  the  bread  out  of  my  mouth  and  cram 
everything  into  her  own.  Ah!  well  now,  she 
comes,  she  wheedles  you,  she  says  to  you,  'how  do 
you  do.  Mother.'  And  there's  all  her  duty  paid 
toward  the  author  of  her  days.  Go  along,  as  I  tell 
you.  But  she'll  have  children  one  of  these  days, 
and  she'll  find  out  what  it  is  to  have  such  bad  bag- 
.gages,  which  one  can't  help  loving  all  the  same." 
"What!  she  does  nothing  for  you.?" 
"Ah,  nothing.?     No,  Monsieur,  I  don't  say  that; 


I40  FERRAGUS 

if  she  did  nothing  that  would  be  a  little  too  much. 
She  pays  my  rent,  gives  me  fire-wood  and  thirty- 
six  francs  a  month. — But  Monsieur  what's  that  at 
^y  age,  fifty-two  years  old,  with  eyes  that  ache 
at  night,  ought  I  to  be  still  working?  Besides,  why 
won't  she  have  me  with  her  ?  I  should  shame  her 
there?  Then  let  her  say  so.  In  truth,  ought  one 
to  be  buried  out  of  the  way  for  such  dogs  of  children 
who  have  forgotten  you  even  before  they've  shut 
the  door?" 

She  pulled  her  handkerchief  out  of  her  pocket  and 
with  it  a  lottery  ticket  that  dropped  on  the  floor ; 
but  she  hastily  picked  it  up  saying: 

"Hi !     That's  the  receipt  for  my  taxes." 

Jules  at  once  perceived  the  reason  of  the  sagacious 
parsimony  of  which  the  mother  complained,  and 
he  was  only  the  more  certain  that  the  widow  Gru- 
get  would  agree  to  the  proposed  bargain. 

"Well,  then,  Madame,"  he  said,  "accept  what  I 
offer  you." 

"You  said,  Monsieur,  two  thousand  francs  in 
ready  money  and  six  hundred  annuity?  " 

"Madame,  I've  changed  my  mind  and  I  will 
promise  you  only  three  hundred  annuity.  This 
way  seems  to  me  more  to  my  interest.  But  I  will 
give  you  five  thousand  francs  in  ready  money. 
Wouldn't  you  like  that  better?  " 

"Bless  me,  yes.  Monsieur." 

"You  will  have  more  comfort,  and  you  can  go  to 
the  Ambigu-Comique,  to  Franconi's,  everywhere, 
at  your  ease,  in  a  hackney-coach.  " 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  141 

"Ah,  I  don't  like  Franconi,  for  they  don't  talk 
there.  But,  Monsieur,  if  I  accept,  it  is  because  it 
will  be  very  advantageous  to  my  child.  At  least 
I  shall  no  longer  be  an  expense  to  her.  Poor  little 
thing,  after  all,  I  shouldn't  want  to  take  her  pleas- 
ures from  her.  Monsieur,  youth  must  amuse  itself! 
and  so,  if  you  assure  me  that  I  will  do  no  harm  to 
anyone — " 

"To  no  one,"  repeated  Jules.  "But  now,  how 
will  you  manage  it?" 

"Well,  Monsieur,  by  giving  to  Monsieur  Ferragus 
this  evening  a  little  tea  made  of  poppy-heads  he'll 
sleep  sound,  the  dear  man !  And  he  has  good  need 
of  it  because  of  his  sufferings,  for  he  does  suffer,  so 
that  it  is  a  pity.  But,  too,  I  should  like  to  know 
what  kind  of  invention  it  is  for  a  healthy  man  to 
burn  his  back  just  to  get  rid  of  a  tic-douloureux 
which  only  torments  him  once  in  two  years!  To 
get  back  to  our  affair,  I  have  my  neighbor's  key,  and 
her  lodging  is  just  above  mine  and  there  is  a  room 
adjoining  the  one  in  which  Monsieur  Ferragus  is 
lying,  with  only  a  partition  between  them.  She  is 
away  in  the  country  for  ten  days.  Well,  then,  in 
making  a  hole  during  the  night  in  the  partition-wall 
you  will  be  able  to  see  them  and  to  hear  them  at 
your  ease.  I  am  on  good  terms  with  a  locksmith, 
a  very  friendly  man,  who  talks  like  an  angel,  and 
he  will  do  that  for  me,  and  no  one  will  know  any- 
thing about  it. " 

"Here's  a  hundred  francs  for  him;  come  this 
evening  to  Monsieur  Desmarets,  a  notary,  here's 


142  FERRAGUS 

his  address.  At  nine  o'clock  the  deed  will  be 
ready,  but — motus!" 

"Enough,  as  you  say — momus!  An  revoir,}hon- 
sieur." 

Jules  returned  home  almost  calmed  by  the  cer- 
tainty of  knowing  everything  on  the  morrow.  As 
he  entered  the  house  he  found  in  the  porter's  lodge 
the  letter,  perfectly  resealed. 

"How  do  you  feel  now?  "  he  said  to  his  wife,  in 
spite  of  the  coldness  which  separated  them. 

The  loving  habits  are  so  difficult  to  quit 

"Pretty  well,  Jules,"  she  replied  in  a  coquettish 
voice;  "will  you  come  and  dine  beside  me?" 

"Yes — "  he  replied,  giving  her  the  letter;  "here 
is  something  that  Fouquereau  handed  me  for  you." 

Clemence,  who  was  pale,  colored  high  when  she 
saw  the  letter,  and  this  sudden  redness  caused  the 
keenest  pain  to  her  husband. 

"Is  that  joy?  "  he  said  laughing,  "or  the  effect  of 
expectation? " 

"Oh!  of  many  things,"  she  said,  examining  the 
seal. 

"I  will  leave  you,  Madame." 

And  he  went  down  to  his  study,  where  he  wrote 
to  his  brother,  giving  him  directions  about  the  an- 
nual payment  to  the  widow  Gruget.  When  he 
returned  he  found  his  dinner  served  on  a  little  table 
near  the  bed  of  Clemence,  and  Josephine  ready  to 
wait  on  him. 

"If  I  were  up,  how  I  should  like  to  serve  you  my- 
self!"  she  said  when    Josephine   had    left  them. 


« 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  143 

"Oh!  even  on  my  knees,"  she  added,  passing  her 
white  hand  through  her  husband's  hair.  "Dear 
noble  heart,  you  have  been  very  kind  and  gracious 
to  me  just  now.  You  have  done  me  more  good  by 
showing  me  such  confidence  than  all  the  doctors  on 
earth  could  do  me  with  their  prescriptions.  Your 
womanly  delicacy,  for  you  know  how  to  love  like 
a  woman, — well,  it  has  shed  I  know  not  what  balm 
in  my  soul  and  which  has  almost  cured  me.  There 
is  a  truce  between  us.  Jules,  move  your  head  this 
way,  that  I  may  kiss  it." 

Jules  could  not  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  em- 
bracing his  wife.  But  it  was  not  without  a  sort  of 
remorse  in  his  heart;  he  felt  himself  small  before 
this  woman  whom  he  was  still  tempted  to  believe 
innocent.  She  displayed  a  sort  of  melancholy  joy. 
A  tender  hope  shone  on  her  features  through  the 
expression  of  her  grief.  They  seemed  equally  un- 
happy to  be  obliged  to  deceive  each  other;  another 
caress,  and  they  would  have  been  unable  longer  to 
resist  their  suffering  and  they  would  have  avowed 
all  to  each  other. 

"To-morrow  evening,  Clemence.?" 

"No,  Monsieur — to-morrow  at  noon  you  will 
know  all,  and  you  will  kneel  down  before  your 
wife.  Oh  no,  you  shall  not  be  humiliated,  no, 
everything  is  pardoned;  no,  you  have  not  been 
wrong.  Listen;  yesterday  you  did  cruelly  hurt 
me;  but  my  life  perhaps  would  not  have  been  com- 
plete without  that  agony,  it  shall  be  a  shadow  that 
shall  make  brighter  our  celestial  days." 


144  FERRAGUS 

"You  bewitch  me,"  cried  Jules,  "and  you  will 
fill  me  with  remorse." 

"Poor  friend,  destiny  is  stronger  than  we,  and  I 
am  not  the  accomplice  of  my  destiny.  I  shall  go 
out  to-morrow." 

"At  what  hour?"  asked  Jules. 

"At  half-past  nine." 

"Clemence,"  he  said,  "take  every  precaution, 
consult  Doctor  Desplein  and  old  Haudry. " 

"I  will  consult  only  my  heart  and  my  courage." 

"I  shall  leave  you  free,  and  will  not  come  to  see 
you  till  noon." 

"Will  you  not  keep  me  company  a  little  this 
evening?     I  am  no  longer  in  pain — " 

After  having  finished  his  business,  Jules  returned 
to  his  wife,  recalled  to  her  by  an  invincible  attrac- 
tion. His  passion  was  stronger  than  all  his  suffer- 
ings. 


I 


The  next  day,  towards  nine  o'clock,  Jules  escaped 
from  his  own  house,  hurried  to  Rue  des  Enfants- 
Rouges,  went  up-stairs  and  rang  the  bell  of  the 
widow  Gruget 

"Ah,  you've  kept  your  word,  as  true  as  the 
dawn.  Come  in.  Monsieur,"  said  the  old  passe- 
menterie maker  as  she  recognized  him.  "1  have 
made  you  a  cup  of  coffee  with  cream  in  case  that — " 
she  resumed  when  the  door  was  closed.  "Oh! 
real  cream,  a  little  pot  of  it  that  I  saw  milked  my- 
self at  the  dairy  we  have  in  the  market  des  Enfants- 
Rouges. " 

"Thank  you,  Madame,  no,  not  anything.  Show 
me—" 

"Well,  well,  my  dear  Monsieur.  Come  this 
way." 

The  widow  conducted  Jules  into  a  room  above 
her  own  where  she  showed  him  triumphantly  an 
opening  of  the  size  of  a  two-franc  piece,  made 
during  the  night  in  a  place  corresponding  with  one 
of  the  highest  and  darkest  rosettes  in  the  wall  paper 
of  Ferragus's  chamber.  This  opening  in  both  rooms 
was  above  a  wardrobe,  the  slight  traces  of  his  work 
left  by  the  locksmith  had  therefore  left  no  evidence 
on  either  side  of  the  wall,  and  it  was  very  difficult 
to  perceive  in  the  shadow  this  species  of  loop-hole. 
Thus  Jules  was  obliged,  in  order  to  look  through  it, 

lo  (145) 


146  FERRAGUS 

to  maintain  himself  in  a  ratlier  fatiguing  attitude 
by  standing  on  a  tall  stool  which  the  widow  Cruget 
had  been  careful  to  bring. 

"There's  a  gentleman  with  him,"  said  the  old 
woman  as  she  retired. 

Jules  perceived,  in  fact,  a  man  occupied  in  dress- 
ing a  string  of  wounds  produced  by  a  certain  num- 
ber of  burnings  on  the  shoulders  of  Ferragus,  whose 
head  he  recognized  from  the  description  given  him 
by  Monsieur  de  Maulincour. 

"When  do  you  think  I  shall  be  cured  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  unknown;  "but 
according  to  the  doctors  it  will  require  seven  or 
eight  more  dressings." 

"Well  then,  good-bye  until  to-night,"  said  Fer- 
ragus, holding  out  his  hand  to  the  man  who  had  just 
replaced  the  last  bandage. 

"Till  to-night,"  replied  the  other,  pressing  his 
hand  cordially.  "I  wish  I  could  see  you  through 
with  your  sufferings." 

"Well,  the  papers  of  Monsieur  de  Funcal  will  be 
delivered  to  us  to-morrow,  and  Henri  Bourignard  is 
certainly  dead,"  said  Ferragus.  "The  two  fatal 
letters  which  have  cost  us  so  dear  no  longer  exist 
I  shall  become  then  once  more  a  social  being,  a  man 
among  men,  and  I  shall  certainly  be  worth  the  sailor 
whom  the  fishes  have  eaten.  God  knows  if  it  is  for 
my  own  sake  that  I  have  made  myself  a  Count! " 

"Poor  Gratien,  you,  our  wisest  head,  our  beloved 
brother,  you  are  the  Benjamin  of  the  band,  as  you 
know." 


1 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  147 

"Adieu,  watch  well  my  Maulincour. " 

"You  can  rest  easy  on  that  score." 

"Ho!  stay,  Marquis,"  cried  the  old  convict. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Ida  is  capable  of  everything  after  the  scene  of 
last  night.  If  she  has  thrown  herself  into  the  river, 
I  certainly  would  not  fish  her  out.  She  will  keep 
better  the  secret  of  my  name,  the  only  one  she  pos- 
sesses ;  but  still  look  after  her ;  for,  after  all,  she  is 
a  good  girl." 

"Very  well." 

The  stranger  departed.  Ten  minutes  later  Jules 
heard,  not  without  a  feverish  shiver,  the  peculiar 
rustle  of  a  silk  gown  and  almost  recognized  the  sound 
of  his  wife's  footsteps. 

"Well,  father,"  said  Clemence,  "poor  father, 
how  do  you  find  yourself.?     What  courage !  " 

"Come,  my  child,"  replied  Ferragus,  extending 
his  hand  to  her. 

And  Clemence  presented  her  forehead  which  he 
kissed. 

"Come  now,  what  is  the  matter  my  poor  little 
girl .''    What  new  troubles  ? — " 

"Troubles,  father!  but  it  is  the  death  of  your 
daughter,  whom  you  love  so  much.  As  I  wrote  you 
yesterday,  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  you 
should  find  in  your  head,  so  fertile  in  ideas,  a  way 
to  see  my  poor  Jules,  to-day  even.  If  you  knew 
how  good  he  has  been  to  me,  in  spite  of  all  suspi- 
cions, apparently  so  legitimate!  Father,  my  love 
is  my  very  life.     Would  you  wish  to  see  me  die? 


148  FERRAGUS 

Ah !  I  have  already  suffered  so  much !  and  I  feel  it, 
my  life  is  in  danger.'* 

"Lose  you,  my  daughter,"  said  Ferragus.  "Lose 
you  through  the  curiosity  of  a  miserable  Parisian? 
1  will  burn  Paris!  Ah!  you  may  know  what  a 
lover  is,  but  you  do  not  know  what  a  father  is." 

"Father,  you  frighten  me  when  you  look  at  me 
that  way.  Do  not  weigh  in  the  balance  two  so 
different  feelings.  I  had  a  husband  before  I  knew 
that  my  father  was  living — " 

"If  your  husband  was  the  first  to  lay  kisses  on 
your  forehead,"  replied  Ferragus,  "I  was  the  first 
to  drop  tears  upon  it. — Reassure  yourself,  Clemence, 
speak  to  me  frankly.  I  love  you  enough  to  be 
happy  in  knowing  that  you  are  happy,  although 
your  father  may  have  little  place  in  your  heart, 
while  you  fill   the   whole  of   his. 

Mon  Dieu  !  How  such  words  do  me  good !  You 
make  yourself  loved  all  the  more,  and  it  seems  to  me 
that  it  is  stealing  something  from  Jules.  But, 
my  good  father,  think,  he  is  in  despair.  What 
shall  I  say  to  him  in  two  hours? " 

"Child,  do  you  think  I  waited  for  your  letter  to 
save  you  from  this  evil  which  threatens  you?  And 
what  will  become  of  those  who  have  ventured  to 
touch  your  happiness,  or  to  come  between  us? 
Have  you  then  never  recognized  the  second  provi- 
dence which  watches  over  you  ?  You  do  not  know 
that  twelve  men  full  of  strength  and  of  intellect 
form  a  rank  around  your  love  and  your  life,  ready 
to  do  all  things  to  protect  you?     Is  it  a  father  who 


1 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  1 49 

risked  death  in  going  to  meet  you  in  the  public 
promenades,  or  in  coming  to  admire  you  in  your 
little  bed  in  your  mother's  house  during  the  night 
time?  Is  it  the  father  to  whom  the  remembrance  of 
your  childish  caresses  alone  gave  strength  to  live 
when  a  man  of  honor  ought  to  have  killed  himself 
to  escape  infamy?  is  it  /  in  short,  I  who  only 
breathe  by  your  mouth,  who  only  see  through  your 
eyes,  who  only  feel  through  your  heart,  is  it  I  who 
would  not  know  how  to  defend  with  the  claws  of  a 
lion,  with  the  soul  of  a  father,  my  one  blessing, 
my  life,  my  daughter? — But  since  the  death  of 
that  angel  who  was  your  mother  I  have  dreamed  of 
but  one  thing,  of  the  happiness  of  publicly  avowing 
you  as  my  daughter,  of  clasping  you  in  my  arms 
in  the  face  of  heaven  and  earth,  of  killing  the 
convict — There  was  a  momentary  pause — .  Of 
giving  you  a  father,  of  being  able  to  press  without 
shame  your  husband's  hand,  of  living  without  fear 
in  your  hearts,  of  being  able  to  say  to  all  the  world 
before  you,  'this  is  my  daughter,'  in  short  to  be  a 
father  openly!  " 

"O  my  father,  my  father !  " 

"After  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  after  searching 
the  whole  globe,"  continued  Ferragus,  "my  friends 
have  found  for  me  the  skin  of  a  man  to  put  on.  A 
few  days  hence  1  shall  be  Monsieur  de  Funcal,  a 
Portuguese  count.  Ah !  my  dear  daughter  there  are 
few  men  who  would  have  had  at  my  age  the 
patience  to  learn  Portuguese  and  English  which 
that  devil  of  a  sailor  spoke  fluently." 


150  FERRAGUS 

"My  dear  father!" 

"Everything  has  been  foreseen,  and  in  a  few 
days  his  Majesty,  John  VI.,  King  of  Portugal,  will 
be  my  accomplice.  It  will  only  be  necessary  for 
you  to  have  a  little  patience  where  your  father  has 
had  a  great  deal.  But  for  me,  it  is  very  simple. 
What  would  I  not  do  to  reward  your  devotion  for 
these  last  three  years!  To  come  so  religiously  to 
console  your  old  father,  to  risk  your  own  happi- 
ness! " 

"My  father !  "  And  Clemence  took  the  hands  of 
Ferragus  and  kissed  them. 

"Come  now,  a  little  more  courage,  my  Clemence, 
keep  the  fatal  secret  till  the  end.  He  is  not  an 
ordinary  man,  Jules;  however,  are  we  sure  that 
his  lofty  character  and  his  great  love  would  not 
prevent  him  from  entertaining  a  sort  of  disrespect 
for  the  daughter  of  a  — " 

"Oh!"  cried  Clemence,  "you  have  read  the 
heart  of  your  child,  I  have  no  other  fear,"  she  added 
in  a  heart-rending  tone.  "It  is  a  thought  that 
turns  me  to  ice.  But,  father,  think  that  I  have 
promised  him  the  truth  in  two  hours." 

"Well,  then,  my  daughter  tell  him  to  go  to  the 
Portuguese  Embassy  and  see  the  Comte  de  Funcal, 
your  father,  I  will  be  there. ' ' 

"And  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  who  has  told  him 
of  Ferragus.''  My  God!  father,  to  deceive,  to  de- 
ceive, what  torture!" 

"To  whom  do  you  say  this?  But  only  a  few 
days  more  and  there  will  not  exist  a  man  who  can 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  151 

expose  me.  Besides,  Monsieur  de  Maulincour 
should  be  beyond  the  faculty  of  remembering. — 
Come,  silly  child,  dry  your  eyes,  and  think — " 

At  this  instant  a  terrible  cry  rang  from  the  room 
in  which  was  Monsieur  Desmarets: 

"My  daughter,  my  poor  daughter !  " 

This  clamor  came  through  the  small  opening  in 
the  wall  over  the  wardrobe,  and  struck  with  terror 
Ferragus  and  Madame  Jules. 

"Go  and  see  what  it  is,  Clemence. " 

Clemence  ran  rapidly  down  the  little  staircase, 
found  wide  open  the  door  into  Madame  Gruget's 
apartment,  heard  the  cries  which  echoed  through 
the  upper  floor,  mounted  the  stairway  quickly, 
guided  by  the  noise  of  the  sobs  into  the  fatal  cham- 
ber whence,  before  entering,  these  words  came  to 
her  ear : 

"It  is  you,  Monsieur,  with  your  inventions,  who 
are  the  cause  of  her  death." 

"Will  you  be  quiet,  miserable  woman,"  said 
Jules,  putting  his  handkerchief  over  the  mouth  of 
the  widow  Gruget,  who  cried: 

"Murder!     Help!" 

At  this  instant  Clemence  entered,  saw  her  hus- 
band, uttered  a  cry  and  fled. 

"Who  will  save  my  daughter  ?  "  asked  the  widow 
Gruget  after  a  long  pause,  "you  have  assassinated 
her!" 

"How.?  "  asked  Jules  mechanically,  stupefied  at 
having  been  recognized  by  his  wife. 

"Read,  Monsieur, "  cried  the  old  woman  dissolving 


152  FERRAGUS 

into  tears.      "Are   there   any   annuities  tliat   can 
console  for  that!" 

"Farewell,  mother:    I  bequeeth  you  all  that  I  hav.    I  beg 

your  pardon  for  my  forlts,  and  the  last  gref  which  I  give  you 

in  puttin  an  end  to  my  days.     Henry,  who  I  love  more  than 

myself,  has  told  me  that  I  made  his  misfortunes  and  since  he 

has  driven  me  away  from  him  and  I  have  lost  all  my  hopes 

of  beings  estableeched  1  am  going  to  droun  myself.     1  shall 

go  below  Neuilly  so  they  can't  put  me  in  the  Morgue.     If  Henry 

does  not  hate  me  any  more  after  I  have  punished  myself  by 

deth  ask  him  to  bury  a  poor  girl  whus  heart  beat  for  him  alon 

and  to  forgif  me  for  I  was  wrong  to   medle  in  what  didn't 

concern  me.     Take  good  care  of  his   moqca.     How  he  has 

suffered,  that  poor  fellow.    But  1  shall  have  the  same  curage 

to  destroy  myself  that  he  had  to  burn  himself.    Send  home  the 

corsets  1  have  finished  to  my  customers.    And  pray  God  for 

your  daughter. 

"IDA." 

"Take  this  letter  to  Monsieur  de  Funcal,  he  who 
is  upstairs.  If  there  is  still  time,  he  alone  can 
save  your  daughter." 

And  Jules  disappeared,  running  like  a  man  who 
has  committed  a  crime.  His  legs  trembled.  His 
swelling  heart  received  torrents  of  blood,  hotter  and 
more  copious  than  at  any  moment  of  his  life,  and 
sent  them  out  again  with  a  most  unusual  violence. 
The  most  contradictory  thoughts  struggled  in  his 
mind,  and  yet  one  thought  dominated  all  others. 
He  had  not  been  loyal  to  the  being  whom  he  loved 
the  most.  And  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  argue 
with  his  conscience,  whose  voice  growing  louder 
because  of  his  fault,  came  like  an  echo  of  those 


THE  WIDOW  GRUGET  AND  M.  DES- 
MARETS 


Cleincnce  ran  rapidly  dozvn  the  little  staircase, 
found  wide  open  the  door  into  Madame  Grnget's 
apartment,  heard  the  cries  zvhich  echoed  through  the 
upper  floor,  mounted  the  stairway  qjiickly,  guided 
by  the  noise  of  the  sobs  into  the  fatal  chandler  zi'hence, 
before  entering,  these  luords  cavie  to  her  ear  : 

""It  is  you.  Monsieur,  zvith  your  iiiventions,  who 
are  the  cause  of  her  deaths 


CHIEF  OF  THE   DEVORANTS  1 53 

inward  cries  of  his  love  during  the  crudest  hours 
of  doubt  which  had  lately  agitated  him.  He 
spent  the  greater  part  of  the  day  wandering  around 
Paris,  and  not  daring  to  return  home.  This  man 
of  integrity  trembled  to  meet  the  spotless  brow 
of  the  woman  he  had  misjudged.  The  quality  of 
crimes  varies  according  to  the  purity  of  our  con- 
sciences, and  the  deed  which  for  some  hearts  is 
scarcely  a  fault  takes  the  proportion  of  a  sin  in  cer- 
tain purer  souls.  The  word  purity,  is  it  not,  in 
fact,  of  a  heavenly  comprehensiveness  .-*  And  the 
slightest  stain  on  the  white  robe  of  a  virgin,  does  it 
not  make  something  ignoble,  as  much  so  as  are  the 
rags  of  a  beggar.  Between  these  two,  the  only 
difference  is  that  between  a  misfortune  and  a  fault. 
God  never  measures  repentance.  He  does  not  divide 
it,  and  He  requires  as  much  to  efface  a  spot  as  to 
make  Him  forget  a  lifetime.  These  reflections  fell 
with  all  their  weight  on  Jules,  for  passions,  like 
human  laws,  do  not  pardon,  and  they  reason  more 
justly;  are  they  not  based  on  a  conscience  of  their 
own  as  infallible  as  an  instinct?  Jules  finally  came 
home  despairing,  pale,  crushed  beneath  a  sense  of 
his  wrong  doing,  and  yet  expressing  in  spite  of 
himself  the  joy  which  his  wife's  innocence  gave 
him.  He  entered  her  room  throbbing  with  emotion, 
he  saw  her  in  bed,  she  had  a  high  fever.  He 
seated  himself  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  took  her 
hand,  kissed  it  and  covered  it  with  his  tears. 

"Dear  angel,"  he  said  when  they  were  alone, 
"it  is  repentance." 


\ 


154  FERRAGUS 

"And  for  what?  "  she  answered. 

As  she  said  this  she  laid  her  head  back  upon  the 
pillow,  closed  her  eyes  and  remained  motionless, 
keeping  the  secret  of  her  sufferings  that  she  might 
not  frighten  her  husband, — the  delicacy  of  a  mother 
is  the  delicacy  of  an  angel.  It  was  the  sum  of  all 
womanliness.  The  silence  lasted  long.  Jules, 
thinking  Clemence  asleep,  went  to  question  Joseph- 
ine as  to  her  mistress's  condition. 

"Madame  came  home  half-dead,  Monsieur.  We 
sent  at  once  for  Monsieur  Haudry. " 

"Did  he  come  ?  what  did  he  say  ?  " 

"He  said  nothing,  Monsieur.  He  did  not  seem 
satisfied,  gave  orders  that  no  one  should  go  near 
Madame  except  the  nurse,  and  said  he  would  come 
back  this  evening." 

Jules  returned  softly  to  his  wife's  room,  sat  down 
in  an  arm-chair  and  remained  there  by  the  side  of 
the  bed,  motionless,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  those  of 
Clemence;  when  she  raised  her  eyelids  she  saw 
him  at  once,  and  a  glance  escaped  her  tear-dimmed 
eyes,  tender,  full  of  passion,  free  from  reproach  and 
bitterness,  a  glance  which  fell  like  a  flame  of  fire 
upon  the  heart  of  that  husband  nobly  absolved  and 
forever  loved  by  this  being  whom  he  had  killed. 
The  presentiment  of  death  struck  both  their  minds 
with  equal  force.  Their  looks  were  blended  in  one 
anguish,  as  their  hearts  had  long  been  blended  in 
one  love,  felt  equally  by  both,  shared  equally.  There 
were  no  questions,  but  a  horrible  certainty.  In  the 
wife,  a  complete  generosity;  in  the  husband,   an 


fl 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  155 

awful  remorse;  and  in  both  souls,  the  same  vision 
of  the  end,  the  same  conviction  of  fatality. 

There  was  a  moment  when,  thinking  his  wife 
asleep,  Jules  kissed  her  softly  on  the  forehead  and 
said,  after  having  long  contemplated  her : 

"My  God!  leave  me  this  angel  still  long  enough 
for  me  to  absolve  myself  of  my  wrongs  by  a  long 
adoration: — A  daughter  she  is  sublime;  a  wife, 
what  word  can  express  her  ?  " 

Clemence  raised  her  eyes,  they  were  full  of  tears. 

"You  pain  me,"  she  said  in  a  feeble  voice. 

It  was  getting  late.  Dr.  Haudry  came  and  re- 
quested the  husband  to  withdraw  during  his  visit. 
When  he  came  out,  Jules  did  not  ask  him  one  ques- 
tion ;  one  gesture  was  enough. 

"Call  in  consultation  any  other  physician  in 
whom  you  have  the  greatest  confidence ;  I  may  be 
wrong." 

"Doctor,  tell  me  the  truth.  I  am  a  man,  I  shall 
know  how  to  hear  it;  and  I  have  moreover  the 
deepest  interest  in  knowing  it,  as  1  have  certain 
affairs  to  settle — " 

"Madame  Jules  is  fatally  ill,"  replied  the  physi- 
cian. "There  is  some  moral  malady  which  has 
made  great  progress  and  which  complicates  her 
physical  condition,  which  was  already  so  dangerous 
and  rendered  still  graver  by  her  imprudences, — to 
leave  her  bed,  bare-footed  at  night;  to  go  out  when 
I  forbade  it,  yesterday  on  foot,  to-day  in  a  carriage. 
She  has  wished  to  kill  herself.  However,  my  judg- 
ment is  not  final,  she  has  youth  and  an  astonishing 


156  FERRAGUS 

nervous  strength. — It  might  be  well  to  risk  all  to 
gain  all  by  employing  some  violent  reactive;  but  I 
will  not  take  upon  myself  to  order  it,  I  will  not 
even  advise  it;  and  in  consultation  I  shall  oppose 
its  use." 

Jules  returned  to  his  wife.     During  eleven  days 
and  eleven  nights  he  remained  beside  her  bed,  tak- 
ing no  sleep  except  during  the  day  when  he  laid 
his  head  upon  the  foot  of  this  bed.     Never  did  any 
man  push  to  a  greater  extreme  the  jealousy  of  care 
and  the  craving  for  devotion.     He  could  not  endure 
that  the  slightest  service  should  be  done  by  others 
for  his  wife;    he   continually  held  her  hand  and 
seemed  thus  to  wish  to  communicate  his  life  to  her. 
There  were  days   of    uncertainty,   of  false  hopes, 
good  days,  an  amelioration,  then  a  crisis, — in  short, 
all  the  horrible  vacillations  of  death  as  it  hesitates, 
wavers,  and  finally  strikes.     Madame  Jules  always 
found  strength  to  smile  on  her  husband;  she  pitied 
him,  knowing  that  soon  he  would  be  alone.     It  was 
a  double  agony,  that  of  life,  that  of  love;  but  life 
grew  feebler  and  love  grew  mightier.     There  was 
a  frightful  night,  that  in  which  Clemence  passed 
through  that  delirium  which  always  precedes  the 
death  of  the  young.     She  talked  of  her  happy  love, 
she  talked  of  her  father,  she  related  her  mother's 
revelations  on  her  death-bed  and  the  obligations 
which  she  had  laid  upon  her.     She  struggled,  not 
for  life  but  for  her  love  which  she  could  not  leave. 
"Grant,  oh!  God,"  she  said,  "that  he  may  not 
know  that  I  would  wish  him  to  die  with  me." 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  1 57 

Jules,  unable  to  bear  this  scene,  was  at  that 
moment  in  the  adjoining  room  and  did  not  hear  the 
prayer,  which  he  doubtless  would  have  fulfilled. 

When  the  crisis  had  passed  Madame  Jules  recov- 
ered some  strength.  The  next  day  she  was  again 
beautiful  and  tranquil ;  she  talked,  hope  came  to  her, 
she  adorned  herself  as  the  sick  often  do.  Then  she 
asked  to  be  alone  all  day  and  sent  her  husband 
away  with  one  of  those  entreaties  made  so  earnestly 
that  they  are  granted  as  we  grant  the  prayer  of  a 
little  child.  Moreover,  Jules  had  need  of  this  day. 
He  went  to  call  on  Monsieur  de  Maulincour  in  order 
to  demand  from  him  the  duel  to  the  death  formerly 
arranged  between  them.  It  was  not  without  great 
difficulty  that  he  succeeded  in  reaching  the  pres- 
ence of  the  author  of  his  misfortunes;  but  the 
vidame,  when  he  learned  that  the  visit  related  to 
an  affair  of  honor,  followed  the  precepts  which  had 
always  governed  his  life  and  introduced  Jules  into 
the  baron's  chamber.  Monsieur  Desmarets  looked 
about  him  for  the  Baron  de  Maulincour. 

"Oh!  that  is  really  he,"  said  the  Commander, 
motioning  to  a  man  who  was  sitting  in  an  arm-chair 
beside  the  fire. 

"Who,  Jules?"  said  the  dying  man  in  a  broken 
voice. 

Auguste  had  lost  the  only  faculty  that  makes  us 
live — memory.  At  his  aspect  Monsieur  Desmarets 
recoiled  in  horror.  He  could  not  recognize  the 
elegant  young  man  in  that  thing  without  a  name 
in  any  language,  according  to  Bossuet's  expression. 


158  FERRAGUS 

It  was  in  truth  a  corpse  with  whitened  hair;  bones 
scarcely  covered  by  a  wrinkled,  blighted,  with- 
ered skin;  white  eyes  without  movement;  a  mouth 
hideously  gaping  like  those  of  idiots  or  debauchees 
killed  by  their  excesses.  No  trace  of  intelli- 
gence remained  upon  that  brow  nor  in  any  feature; 
nor  was  there  in  that  flabby  skin  either  color 
or  any  appearance  of  circulating  blood.  In  short, 
here  was  a  man  shrunken,  almost  dissolved, 
brought  to  the  state  of  those  monsters  we  see  pre- 
served in  museums  in  glass  bottles,  floating  in 
alcohol.  Jules  fancied  that  he  saw  above  this  face 
the  terrible  head  of  Ferragus,  and  this  complete 
vengeance  terrified  his  own  hatred.  The  husband 
found  pity  in  his  heart  for  the  doubtful  debris  of 
what  had  been,  so  recently,  a  young  man. 

"The  duel  has  taken  place, "  said  the  Commander. 

"He  has  killed  many,"  cried  Jules  sorrowfully. 

"And  many  dear  ones,"  added  the  old  man. 
"His  grandmother  is  dying  of  grief,  and  I  shall  fol- 
low her,  perhaps,  into  the  tomb." 

The  day  after  this  visit  Madame  Jules  grew 
worse  from  hour  to  hour.  She  profited  by  a  mo- 
ment's strength  to  take  a  letter  from  under  her  pil- 
low, presented  it  eagerly  to  Jules  and  made  him  a 
sign  which  was  easy  to  understand, — she  wished  to 
give  him  in  a  kiss  her  last  breath  of  life,  he  took  it 
and  she  died.  Jules  fell  half-dead  himself,  and  was 
taken  to  his  brother's  house.  There,  as  in  his  tears 
and  his  delirium  he  deplored  his  absence  of  the  day 
before,  his  brother  informed  him  that  this  separation 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  I59 

was  eagerly  desired  by  Clemence,  who  wished 
to  spare  him  the  sight  of  the  religious  parapher- 
nalia, so  terrible  to  tender  imaginations,  which  the 
Church  displays  when  conferring  the  last  sacra- 
ments upon  the  dying. 

"You  could  not  have  borne  it,"  said  his  brother. 
"I  could  not  sustain  the  sight  myself,  and  all  the 
servants  wept.  Clemence  was  like  a  saint.  She 
gathered  strength  to  bid  us  all  good-bye,  and  that 
voice,  heard  for  the  last  time,  rent  our  hearts. 
When  she  asked  pardon  for  the  pain  she  might  have 
involuntarily  caused  those  who  served  her,  there 
was  a  cry  mixed  with  sobs,  a  cry — " 

"Enough,  enough,"  said  Jules. 

He  wished  to  be  alone  that  he  might  read  the  last 
thoughts  of  this  woman  whom  all  the  world  had 
admired,  and  who  had  passed  away  like  a  flower: 

"  My  beloved,  this  is  my  last  will.  Why  should  we  not 
make  wills  for  the  treasures  of  the  heart  as  for  other  riches  ? 
Was  not  my  love  my  whole  property?  I  wish  here  to  con- 
sider only  my  love  ;  it  was  the  only  fortune  of  your  Clemence, 
and  it  is  all  that  she  can  leave  you  in  dying.  Jules,  I  am  still 
loved,  I  die  happy.  The  doctors  explain  my  death  in  their 
own  manner,  I  alone  know  the  true  cause.  I  shall  tell  it  to 
you,  whatever  pain  it  may  cause  you.  I  do  not  want  to  carry 
away  with  me  in  a  heart  all  yours  a  secret  which  you  do  not 
share,  although  I  die  the  victim  of  an  enforced  silence. 

"Jules,  1  was  nurtured  and  brought  up  in  the  deepest  soli- 
tude, far  from  the  vices  and  the  falsehoods  of  the  world,  by 
the  loving  woman  whom  you  knew.  Society  did  justice  to 
those  conventional  qualities  by  which  a  woman  pleases  in 
society,  but  I  knew  secretly  this  celestial  soul,  and  I  could 
cherish  the  mother  who  made  my  childhood  a  joy  without 


l6o  FERRAGUS 

bitterness,  in  knowing  well  why  I  cherished  her.  Was  that 
not  to  love  doubly  ?  Yes,  I  loved  her,  I  feared  her,  I  respected 
her,  and  yet  nothing  weighed  on  my  heart,  neither  respect  nor 
fear.  I  was  everything  to  her,  she  was  everything  to  me. 
For  nineteen  years,  full  of  happiness,  without  a  care,  my  soul, 
solitary  in  the  midst  of  the  world  which  muttered  around  me, 
reflected  only  the  purest  image,  that  of  my  mother,  and  my 
heart  beat  only  through  her  and  for  her.  I  was  scrupulously 
pious,  and  I  found  pleasure  in  remaining  pure  before  God. 
My  mother  cultivated  in  me  all  the  noble  and  self-respecting 
sentiments.  Ah  !  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  avow  it  to  you, 
Jules ;  I  know  now  that  I  was  indeed  a  young  girl,  and  that 
I  came  to  you  virgin  in  heart.  When  I  left  the  absolute  soli- 
tude, when  for  the  first  time  1  braided  my  hair  and  crowned  it 
with  almond  blossoms,  when  I  had  with  complacency  added 
a  few  satin  bows  to  my  white  dress,  thinking  of  the  world  I 
was  going  to  see  and  which  1  was  curious  to  see, — ah,  Jules, 
that  innocent  and  modest  coquetry  was  all  for  you  :  for  as  I 
entered  the  world  it  was  you  whom  I  saw  first  of  all.  Your 
face,  I  remarked  it,  it  stood  out  from  the  throng  of  others  ; 
your  person  pleased  me ;  your  voice  and  your  manners  inspired 
me  with  favorable  presentiments  ;  and  when  you  came  up, 
when  you  spoke  to  me,  the  color  on  your  forehead,  when  your 
voice  trembled, — that  moment  gave  me  memories  with  which 
1  still  throb  in  writing  to  you  to-day  when  I  think  of  them  for 
the  last  time.  Our  love  was  at  first  the  keenest  of  sympa- 
^-  thies,  but  it  was  soon  mutually  discovered  and  then  as  speed- 
ily shared,  just  as  in  after  times  we  have  mutually  experienced 
its  innumerable  pleasures.  From  that  moment  my  mother 
was  only  second  in  my  heart.  I  told  her  so  and  she  smiled, 
the  adorable  woman!  Next  I  was  yours,  all  yours.  There  is 
my  life,  and  all  my  life,  my  dear  husband.  And  here  is  what 
remains  for  me  to  tell  you.  One  evening,  a  few  days  before 
her  death,  my  mother  revealed  to  me  the  secret  of  her  life,  not 
without  shedding  burning  tears.  I  have  loved  you  better  since 
I  learned,  before  the  priest  who  was  charged  to  absolve  my 
mother,  that  there  are  passions  condemned  by  the  world  and 


i' 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  l6l 

by  the  Church.  But,  surely,  God  will  not  be  severe  when 
they  are  the  sins  of  souls  as  tender  as  was  that  of  my  mother; 
only,  that  angel  could  never  bring  herself  to  repent.  She 
loved  much,  Jules,  she  was  all  love.  So  I  have  prayed  for 
her  daily,  without  ever  having  judged  her.  Then  1  learned 
the  cause  of  her  deep  maternal  tenderness ;  then  I  learned 
that  there  was  in  Paris  a  man  whose  life  and  whose  love 
centered  on  me  ;  that  your  fortune  was  his  work  and  that  he 
loved  you ;  that  he  was  exiled  from  society  ;  that  he  bore  a 
tarnished  name,  for  which  he  was  more  unhappy  on  my 
account,  on  ours,  than  on  his  own.  My  mother  was  his  only 
consolation,  and  when  my  mother  died,  I  promised  to  take  her 
place.  With  all  the  ardor  of  a  soul  whose  feelings  had  never 
been  perverted  I  saw  only  the  happiness  of  softening  the  bit- 
terness which  poisoned  the  last  moments  of  my  mother,  and  I 
pledged  myself  to  continue  her  work  of  secret  charity,  the 
charity  of  the  heart.  The  first  time  that  I  saw  my  father 
was  beside  the  bed  where  my  mother  had  just  expired ;  when 
he  raised  his  eyes  full  of  tears  it  was  to  find  in  me  a  revival 
of  all  his  dead  hopes.  I  had  sworn,  not  to  lie  but  to  keep 
silent,  and  that  silence,  what  woman  would  have  broken  it? 
There  is  my  fault,  Jules,  a  fault  which  I  expiate  by  death. 
1  doubted  you.  But  fear  is  so  natural  to  a  woman,  and  above 
all  to  a  woman  who  knows  all  that  she  may  lose !  I  trembled 
for  my  love.  My  father's  secret  appeared  to  me  to  mean  the 
death  of  my  happiness,  and  the  more  I  loved  the  more  I 
feared.  I  dared  not  avow  this  feeling  to  my  father  ;  it  would 
have  wounded  him,  and  in  his  situation  any  wound  was 
agony.  But  without  letting  me  know  it,  he  shared  my  fears. 
That  heart  so  fatherly  trembled  for  my  happiness  as  much  as 
I  trembled  myself,  and  did  not  dare  to  speak,  obeying  the 
same  delicacy  which  kept  me  mute.  Yes,  Jules,  I  believed 
that  you  could  not  love  some  day  the  daughter  of  Gratien  as 
much  as  you  loved  your  Clemence.  Without  this  profound 
terror  could  I  have  kept  back  anything  from  you,  from  you 
who  live  in  the  innermost  fibres  of  my  heart  ?  The  day  when 
that  odious,  that  unfortunate,  officer  spoke  to  you  I  was  forced 
II 


l62  FERRAGUS 

to  lie.  That  day,  for  the  second  time  in  my  life,  I  knew  what 
pain  was,  and  that  pain  has  been  growing  until  this  moment, 
when  1  speak  with  you  for  the  last  time.  What  matters  now 
my  father's  position?  You  know  all.  I  might  have,  by  the 
help  of  my  love,  conquered  my  illness,  borne  all  its  sufferings, 
but  1  could  not  stifle  the  voice  of  doubt.  Is  it  not  possible 
that  my  origin  would  affect  the  purity  of  your  love,  weaken 
it,  diminish  it?  This  fear  nothing  has  been  able  to  destroy  in 
me.  This  is,  Jules,  the  cause  of  my  death.  I  could  not  live 
fearing  a  word,  a  look  ;  a  word  which  perhaps  you  would 
never  say,  a  look  you  would  never  give  ;  but  1  cannot  help  it,  1 
fear  them.  I  die  beloved,  there  is  my  consolation.  I  have 
learned  that  in  the  last  four  years  my  father  and  his  friends 
have  well-nigh  moved  the  world,  to  deceive  the  world.  In 
order  to  give  me  a  station  in  life,  they  have  bought  a  dead 
man,  a  reputation,  a  fortune,  all  this  that  a  living  man  might 
live  again  ;  all  this  for  you,  for  us.  We  were  to  have  known 
nothing  of  it.  Well,  my  death  will  without  doubt  save  my 
father  from  that  falsehood  ;  he  will  die  of  my  death.  Fare- 
well, Jules,  my  heart  is  all  here.  To  show  you  my  love  in  the 
innocence  of  its  terror,  is  not  that  to  bequeath  to  you  all  my 
soul  ?  1  could  not  have  had  the  strength  to  speak  to  you  ;  1 
have  had  enough  to  write  to  you.  I  have  confessed  to  God 
the  sins  of  my  life  ;  I  have  indeed  promised  to  think  only  of 
the  King  of  Heaven  ;  but  I  have  not  been  able  to  resist  the 
pleasure  of  making  my  confession  also  to  him  who  is  for  me 
the  whole  of  earth.  Alas  !  shall  I  not  be  pardoned  for  it,  this 
last  sigh,  between  the  life  that  was  and  the  life  which  is  to  be  ! 
Farewell,  then,  my  beloved  Jules;  I  go  to  God,  before  whom 
love  is  without  a  cloud,  before  whom  you  will  come  one  day. 
There,  under  His  throne,  reunited  forever,  we  can  love  each 
other  through  the  ages.  This  hope  alone  consoles  me.  If  I 
am  worthy  of  being  there  before  you,  from  there  I  will  follow 
you  through  life,  my  soul  will  accompany  you  ;  it  will  envel- 
ope you,  for  you  will  still  remain  here  below.  Lead  then  a 
holy  life,  that  you  may  the  more  surely  come  to  me.  You  may 
do  such  good  upon  this  earth  !    Is  it  not  an  angel's  mission  for 


I 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  163 

the  suffering  soul,  to  shed  happiness  around  him,  to  give  to 
others  that  which  he  has  not?  I  bequeath  you  to  the  unhappy. 
It  is  only  their  smiles  and  their  tears  of  which  I  shall  not  be 
jealous.  We  shall  find  a  great  charm  in  the  sweet  benefi- 
cences. Can  we  not  still  live  together,  if  you  would  join  my 
name,  that  of  your  Clemence,  to  these  good  works  ?  After 
having  loved  as  we  loved,  there  is  naught  but  God,  Jules. 
God  does  not  lie,  God  does  not  deceive.  Adore  Him  only,  I 
wish  it.  Nourish  the  good  in  all  those  who  suffer,  comfort  the 
sorrowing  members  of  His  church.  Farewell,  dear  soul  that 
I  have  filled,  I  know  you  ;  you  will  never  love  twice.  I  shall 
then  expire  happy  in  the  thought  that  makes  all  women 
happy.  Yes,  my  grave  will  be  your  heart.  After  this  child- 
hood which  I  have  related  to  you  has  not  my  life  flowed  on 
within  your  heart?  Dead,  you  will  never  drive  me  forth.  I 
am  proud  of  this  rare  life !  You  will  have  only  known  me  in 
the  flower  of  my  youth  ;  I  leave  you  regrets  without  disillu- 
sions.    Jules,  it  is  a  very  happy  death. 

"  You  who  have  so  fully  understood  me,  permit  me  to  ask 
one  thing  of  you,  a  superfluous  thing,  doubtless,  the  fulfil- 
ment of  a  woman's  fancy,  the  prayer  of  a  jealousy  we  all 
must  feel.  I  pray  you  to  burn  all  that  especially  belonged  to 
us,  to  destroy  our  chamber,  to  annihilate  all  that  might  be  a 
souvenir  of  our  love. 

"  Once  more  farewell,  the  last  farewell,  full  of  love,  as 
will  be  my  last  thought  and  my  last  breath." 


* 

When  Jules  had  read  this  letter  there  came  into 
his  heart  one  of  those  frenzies  of  which  it  is  impos- 
sible to  describe  the  frightful  crises.  All  sorrows 
are  individual,  their  effects  are  not  subjected  to  any 
fixed  rule!  Some  men  will  stop  their  ears  that  they 
may  hear  nothing;  some  women  close  their  eyes 
that  they  may  see  nothing;  there  are  great  and 
splendid  souls  who  fling  themselves  into  sorrow 
as  into  an  abyss.  In  the  matter  of  despair,  every- 
thing is  true.  Jules  escaped  from  his  brother's 
house  and  returned  to  his  own,  wishing  to  pass  the 
night  beside  his  wife  and  see  that  celestial  creature 
to  the  last  moment.  As  he  walked  along,  with  that 
indifference  to  life  known  only  to  those  who  have 
reached  the  last  degree  of  wretchedness,  he  re- 
membered that  in  Asia  the  laws  forbade  the  married 
to  survive  each  other.  He  wished  to  die.  He  was 
not  yet  crushed,  he  was  still  in  the  fever  of  his 
grief.  He  reached  his  home  without  obstacle  and 
went  up  into  the  sacred  chamber;  he  saw  his  Cle- 
mence  on  the  bed  of  death,  beautiful  as  a  saint,  her 
hair  carefully  arranged,  her  hands  joined,  already 
wrapped  in  her  shroud.  Tapers  lighted  a  priest  in 
prayer,  Josephine  weeping  in  a  corner,  kneeling, 
and  two  men  standing  near  the  bed.  One  of  them 
was  Ferragus.  He  stood  erect,  motionless,  gazing  at 
his  daughter  with  a  dry  eye;  his  head  you  might 
have  taken  for  bronze.    He  did  not  see  Jules.    The 

(165) 


l66  FERRAGUS 

other  was  Jacquet,  Jacquet  to  whom  Madame  Jules 
had  ever  been  kind.  He  had  felt  for  her  one  of  those 
respectful  friendships  which  rejoice  the  heart  with- 
out troubling  it,  which  are  a  gentle  passion,  love 
without  its  desires  and  its  storms;  and  he  had  come 
religiously  to  pay  his  debt  of  tears,  to  bid  a  long 
adieu  to  the  wife  of  his  friend,  to  kiss  for  the  first 
time  the  icy  brow  of  the  woman  he  had  tacitly  made 
his  sister.  All  was  silence.  Here,  death  was  neither 
terrible  as  it  is  in  the  church,  nor  pompous  as  it  is 
when  it  traverses  the  streets;  it  was  death  under 
the  domestic  roof,  touching  death;  here  was  the 
mourning  of  the  heart,  tears  drawn  from  every  eye. 
Jules  sat  down  near  Jacquet  and  pressed  his  hand 
and  without  uttering  a  word  all  these  persons  re- 
mained as  they  were  till  morning.  When  daylight 
paled  the  tapers,  Jacquet,  foreseeing  the  painful 
scenes  which  would  then  take  place,  drew  Jules  into 
the  adjoining  room.  At  this  moment  the  husband 
looked  at  the  father  and  Ferragus  looked  at  Jules. 
These  two  sorrows  arraigned  each  other,  measured 
each  other,  and  comprehended  each  other  in  that 
look.  A  flash  of  fury  shone  for  an  instant  in  the 
eyes  of  Ferragus. 

"It  is  you  who  killed  her,"  thought  he. 

"Why  was  I  distrusted.^"  seemed  to  answer  the 
husband. 

This  scene  was  one  that  might  have  passed 
between  two  tigers,  recognizing  the  futility  of  a 
struggle,  after  having  examined  each  other  dur- 
ing a  moment  of  hesitation,  without  even  a  growl. 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  167 

"Jacquet,"  said  Jules,  "have  you  attended  to 
everything? " 

"Yes,  to  everything,"  replied  the  bureau  chief, 
"but  everywhere  a  man  had  forestalled  me,  who 
had  ordered  and  paid  for  all." 

"He  tears  his  daughter  from  me!  "  cried  the  hus- 
band in  a  violent  accession  of  his  despair. 

He  rushed  back  into  his  wife's  room;  but  the 
father  was  no  longer  there.  Clemence  had  been 
placed  in  a  leaden  coffin,  and  workmen  were  pre- 
paring to  solder  on  the  lid.  Jules  returned,  horri- 
fied at  this  sight,  and  at  the  sound  of  the  hammer 
used  by  these  men  he  involuntarily  burst  into 
tears. 

"Jacquet,"  he  said,  "there  has  come  to  me  out 
of  this  terrible  night  an  idea,  one  only,  but  an  idea 
I  must  realize  at  any  price.  1  do  not  want  Cle- 
mence to  rest  in  any  cemetery  in  Paris.  I  wish  to 
burn  her  body,  to  gather  her  ashes  and  to  keep  her 
with  me.  Say  nothing  to  me  about  this,  but  make 
arrangements  to  have  it  carried  out.  I  am  going  to 
shut  myself  up  in  her  chamber,  and  I  shall  remain 
there  until  the  moment  of  my  departure.  You 
alone  shall  come  in  to  give  me  an  account  of  your 
proceedings.— Go,  and  spare  nothing." 

During  this  morning,  Madame  Jules,  after  lying 
in  a  mortuary  chapel  at  the  door  of  her  house,  was 
taken  to  Saint-Roch.  The  church  was  entirely 
draped  in  black.  The  species  of  luxury  displayed 
for  this  service  had  drawn  a  crowd;  for  in  Paris  all 
things  are  sights,   even   the   most   genuine   grief. 


l68  FERRAGUS 

There  are  persons  who  stand  at  their  windows  to 
see  how  a  son  weeps  when  following  the  body  of 
his  mother,  as  there  are  those  who  wish  to  be  com- 
modiously  placed  to  see  how  a  head  falls  on  the  scaf- 
fold. No  people  in  the  world  have  ever  had  more  vora- 
cious eyes.  But  the  curious  were  on  this  occasion 
particularly  surprised  to  perceive  that  the  six  lateral 
chapels  of  Saint-Roch  were  also  draped  in  black. 
Two  men  in  black  attended  a  mortuary  mass  said 
in  each  of  these  chapels.  \n  the  chancel,  no  other 
persons  were  seen  but  Monsieur  Desmarets,  the 
notary,  and  Jacquet;  and  outside  the  screen,  the 
servants.  There  was,  for  the  church  loungers, 
something  inexplicable  in  so  much  pomp  and  so 
few  mourners.  Jules  had  determined  that  no 
indifferent  person  should  be  present  at  this  cere- 
mony. High  mass  was  celebrated  with  all  the  som- 
bre magnificence  of  funeral  services.  In  addition 
to  the  ordinary  service  of  Saint-Roch,  thirteen 
priests  from  other  parishes  were  present.  Thus  it 
was,  perhaps,  that  the  Dies  irce  had  never  produced 
upon  Christians,  assembled  by  chance,  by  curi- 
osity, but  thirsting  for  emotions,  an  effect  more 
profound,  more  nervously  glacial,  than  the  impres- 
sion now  produced  by  this  hymn  at  the  moment 
when  the  eight  voices  of  the  choristers,  accompa- 
nied by  those  of  the  priests  and  the  voices  of  the 
choir-boys,  intoned  it  alternately.  From  the  six 
lateral  chapels,  twelve  other  childish  voices  rose 
shrill  from  grief,  and  mingled  with  it  mournfully. 
Dread  was  manifested  in  all  parts  of  the  church; 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  169 

everywhere  cries  of  anguish  responded  to  cries  of 
terror.     This  terrible  music  spoke  of  sorrows  un- 
known to  the  world,  and  of  secret  friendships  which 
wept  for  the  dead.     Never  in  any  human  reUgion 
have  the  terrors  of  the  soul,  violently  torn  from  the 
body  and  stormily  shaken  in  presence  of  the  fulmi- 
nating majesty  of  God,   been  rendered  with  such 
force.     Before  that  clamor  of    clamors  must  bow, 
humiliated,   all    artists  and   their  most  passionate 
compositions.     No,  nothing  can  compare  with  that 
hymn,  which  sums  up  all  human  passions  and  gives 
to  them  a  galvanic  life  beyond  the  coffm,  in  bring- 
ing them,  still  palpitating,   before   the  living   and 
avenging  God.     These  cries  of  childhood,  mingling 
with  the  sounds  of  deep  voices,  and  thus  compre- 
hending in  this  canticle  of  death  the  human  life 
in  all  its  developments,  recalling  the  sufferings  of 
the  cradle,  swelling  to  the  griefs  of  other  ages,  with 
the  strong  accents  of  the  men,  with  the  quavering 
of  the  old  men  and  the  priests, — all  this  strident  har- 
mony, full  of  lightning  and  thunder,   does  it  not 
speak  to  the  most  daring  imagination,  to  the  coldest 
heart,  to  the  Philosophers  themselves!     In  hearing 
it,  it  seems  that  God  thunders.    The  vaulted  arches 
of  no  human  church  are  cold;  they  tremble,  they 
speak,  they  scatter  fear  by  all  the  might  of  their 
echoes.     You  think  you  see  the  unnumbered  dead 
rising  and  stretching  out  their  hands.     It  is  no  longer 
a  father,  nor  a  wife,   nor  a  child,  who  is   under 
the  black  pall,  it  is  humanity  rising  from  its  dust. 
It  is  impossible  to  judge  the  Catholic,   Apostolic 


v^ 


170  FERRAGUS 

and  Roman  faith  unless  the  soul  has  known  the 
deepest  grief  of  mourning,  in  weeping  for  the  adored 
one  who  lies  under  the  tomb;  unless  it  has  felt  all 
the  emotions  which  then  fill  the  heart,  translated 
by  this  hymn  of  despair,  by  those  cries  which 
crush  the  soul,  by  that  sacred  terror  which  increases 
from  strophe  to  strophe,  which  turns  toward  heaven, 
and  which  terrifies,  which  shrivels,  which  elevates 
the  soul,  and  which  leaves  within  our  mind,  as 
the  last  verse  finishes,  a  consciousness  of  eter- 
nity. You  have  been  brought  very  close  to  the 
vast  idea  of  the  Infinite;  and  then  all  is  silent  in 
the  church.  No  word  is  said;  the  scoffers  them- 
selves do  not  know  what  they  feel.  The  Spanish 
genius  alone  was  able  to  invent  these  untold 
majesties  for  the  most  unheard-of  sorrows.  When 
the  supreme  ceremony  was  over,  twelve  men  in 
black  issued  from  the  six  chapels  and  came  to  hear 
around  the  coffin,  the  song  of  hope  which  the  church 
makes  known  to  the  Christian  soul  before  the  human 
form  is  buried.  Then  each  of  these  men  entered  a 
mourning  coach;  Jacquet  and  Monsieur  Desmarets 
took  the  thirteenth ;  the  servants  followed  on  foot. 
An  hour  later,  the  twelve  unknown  men  were  at 
the  summit  of  that  cemetery  popularly  called  Pere- 
Lachaise,  standing  in  a  circle  around  an  open  grave 
into  which  the  coffin  had  been  lowered,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  curious  crowd  gathered  from  all  parts  of 
this  public  garden.  Then,  after  a  few  short  prayers, 
the  priest  threw  a  handful  of  earth  on  the  remains 
of  this  woman;  and  the  grave-diggers,  having  asked 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  I7I 

for  their  fee,  made  haste  to  fill  the  grave  in  order 
to  go  to  another. — 

Here  this  history  seems  to  end;  but  perhaps  it 
would  be  incomplete  if  after  having  given  a  rapid 
sketch  of  Parisian  life,  if  after  having  followed  its 
capricious  undulations,  the  effects  of  death  there 
were  forgotten.  Death  in  Paris  is  unlike  death  in 
any  other  capital,  and  but  few  persons  know  the 
trials  of  true  grief  when  brought  into  conflict  with 
the  civilization,  with  the  administration,  of  Paris. 
Perhaps,  also,  Jules  and  Ferragus  XXIII,  may  have 
proved  sufficiently  interesting  to  make  the  ending 
of  their  lives  not  entirely  tedious.  Besides,  many 
people  like  to  be  told  all,  and  wish,  as  one  of  the 
most  ingenious  of  our  critics  has  said,  to  know  by 
what  chemical  process  the  oil  burned  in  Aladdin's 
lamp.  Jacquet,  being  a  Government  employe, 
naturally  applied  to  the  authorities  for  permission 
to  exhume  the  body  of  Madame  Jules  and  to  burn 
it.  He  went  to  see  the  Prefect  of  Police,  under 
whose  protection  the  dead  sleep.  That  functionary 
demanded  a  petition.  It  was  necessary  to  buy  a 
sheet  of  stamped  paper,  to  give  to  sorrow  its  proper 
administrative  form;  it  was  necessary  to  employ 
the  bureaucratic  jargon  to  express  the  wishes  of  a 
crushed  man  to  whom  words  were  lacking;  it  was 
necessary  to  translate  coldly  and  repeat  on  the  mar- 
gin the  nature  of  the  request : 

The  petitioner 

requests  the  incineration 

of  his  wife. 


172  FERRAGUS 

When  he  saw  this,  the  chief  charged  with  the 
duty  of  making  a  report  to  the  Councilor  of  State, 
the  Prefect  of  Police,  said  in  reading  this  marginal 
note  in  which  the  object  of  the  demand  was  clearly 
stated,  as  he  had  recommended: 

"That  is  a  serious  matter!  my  report  cannot  be 
ready  under  a  weetc. " 

Jules,  to  whom  Jacquet  was  obliged  to  speak  of 
this  delay,  comprehended  the  words  that  he  had  I 

heard  Ferragus  utter,  "I'll  burn  Paris."     Nothing  ' 

seemed  to  him  now  more  natural  than  to  annihilate 
this  receptacle  of  monstrosities. 

"But,"  he  said  to  Jacquet,  "you  must  go  to  the 
Minister  of  the  Interior,  and  get  your  minister  to 
speak  to  him." 

Jacquet  went  to  the  Minister  of  the  Interior  and 
asked  for  an  audience  which  was  granted  him,  but 
at  the  end  of  two  weeks.  Jacquet  was  a  persistent 
man.  He  traveled  from  bureau  to  bureau,  and 
finally  reached  the  private  secretary  of  the  minister, 
to  whom  he  had  made  the  private  secretary  of  the 
Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs  say  a  word  in  his  behalf. 
These  high  protectors  aiding,  he  obtained  for  the 
morrow  a  brief  interview  in  which,  being  armed 
with  a  line  from  the  Autocrat  of  Foreign  Affairs 
written  to  the  Pasha  of  the  Interior,  Jacquet  hoped 
to  carry  the  matter  by  assault  He  prepared  all  his 
reasons,  answers  to  peremptory  questions,  his 
replies  to  the  hut  in  case  of;  but  everything  failed. 

"The  matter  does  not  concern  me,"  said  the 
minister.     "It  is  an  affair  for  the  Prefect  of  Police. 


I 


I 

i 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  I73 

Moreover,  there  is  no  law  which  gives  to  husbands 
any  legal  right  to  the  bodies  of  their  wives,  nor  to 
fathers  to  those  of  their  children.  The  matter  is  seri- 
ous! Then  there  are  questions  of  public  utility- 
involved,  which  require  that  this  should  be  exam- 
ined. The  interests  of  the  city  of  Paris  might  suffer. 
In  short,  if  the  matter  depended  entirely  upon  me  I 
could  not  decide  hie  et  nunc,  I  should  require  a 
report." 

A  report  is  to  the  present  system  of  administra- 
tion what  Limbo  is  in  the  Christian  religion.  Jac- 
quet  knew  very  well  the  mania  for  reports,  and  he 
had  not  waited  until  this  occasion  to  groan  over 
that  bureaucratic  absurdity.  He  knew  that  since 
the  invasion  of  public  business  by  the  reports,  an 
administrative  revolution  consummated  in  1804, 
there  was  never  known  a  single  minister  who  would 
take  upon  himself  to  have  an  opinion,  to  decide 
the  slightest  matter,  unless  that  opinion,  that  mat- 
ter, had  been  winnowed,  sifted  and  plucked  to 
pieces  by  the  paper-spoilers,  the  quill-drivers  and 
the  splendid  intelligences  of  his  bureaus.  Jacquet 
— he  was  one  of  those  men  worthy  of  having  Plu- 
tarch for  his  biographer — saw  that  he  had  made  a 
mistake  in  his  management  of  this  affair,  and  that 
he  had  rendered  it  impossible,  by  trying  to  proceed 
legally.  He  should  simply  have  taken  Madame 
Jules  to  one  of  Desmarets'  estates  in  the  country; 
and  there,  under  the  good-natured  authority  of  some 
village  mayor,  to  have  gratified  the  sorrowful  longing 
of  his   friend.      Constitutional   and   administrative 


> 


174  FERRAGUS 

legality  begets  nothing;  it  is  a  barren  monster, 
for  peoples,  for  kings,  and  for  private  interests;  but 
the  people  decipher  only  those  principles  which  are 
written  in  blood;  the  evils  of  legality  being  only 
pacific  it  flattens  a  nation  down,  that  is  all.  Jac- 
quet,  a  lover  of  liberty,  returned  home  reflecting  on 
the  benefits  of  arbitrary  power,  for  man  judges  the 
laws  only  by  the  light  of  his  own  passions.     When  i 

he  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  Jules  he  was  I 

obliged  to  deceive  him,  for  the  unhappy  man,  a 
prey  to  a  violent  fever,  had  been  confined  to  his 
bed  for  two  days.  The  minister  happened  to  speak 
that  very  evening  at  a  ministerial  dinner  of  the 
singular  fancy  of  a  Parisian  wishing  to  burn  his 
wife,  after  the  manner  of  the  Romans.  The  clubs 
of  Paris  took  up  the  subject,  and  discussed  for  a 
while  the  antique  funeral  ceremonies.  Ancient 
things  were  then  becoming  the  fashion,  and  some 
persons  declared  that  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  to  re- 
establish for  high  personages  the  funeral  pyre.  This 
opinion  had  its  defenders  and  its  detractors.  Some 
said  that  there  were  too  many  great  men,  and  that 
this  custom  would  greatly  increase  the  price  of  fire- 
wood, that  among  a  people  as  fickle  in  their  whims 
as  are  the  French  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  see  at 
every  turn  a  Longchamp  of  ancestors  promenading 
in  their  urns;  and  if  the  urns  were  valuable  they 
were  likely  some  day  to  be  sold  at  auction,  or  to  be 
seized,  full  of  respectable  ashes,  by  creditors,  who 
are  accustomed  to  respect  nothing.  Others  made 
answer  that  there  would  be  much  more  safety  for 


I 


CHIEF  OF  THE   DEVORANTS  175 

our  ancestors  thus  enclosed  than  at  Pere-Lachaise, 
for,  before  very  long,  the  city  of  Paris  would  be 
compelled  to  order  a  Saint  Bartholomew  against  its 
dead,  who  were  invading  the  neighboring  country 
and  threatening  to  take  possession  one  day  of  the 
territory  of  Brie,  it  was,  in  short,  one  of  those 
futile  and  witty  Parisian  discussions  which  fre- 
quently cause  deep  and  painful  wounds.  Happily 
for  Jules,  he  knew  nothing  of  the  conversations, 
the  bon  mots,  the  arguments,  which  his  sorrow  had 
furnished  to  the  tongues  of  Paris.  The  Prefect  of 
Police  was  indignant  that  Monsieur  Jacquet  had 
appealed  to  the  minister  to  avoid  the  delays,  the 
wisdom,  of  the  Commissioners  of  Public  Highways. 
The  exhumation  of  Madame  Jules  was  a  question 
•of  highways.  Therefore,  the  Police  Bureau  was 
doing  its  best  to  reply  promptly  to  the  petition,  for 
one  appeal  was  quite  sufficient  to  set  the  office  in 
motion,  and  once  in  motion  the  subject  would  be 
thoroughly  investigated.  The  administration  might 
carry  all  cases  up  to  the  Council  of  State,  another 
machine  very  difficult  to  set  in  motion.  The  second 
day,  Jacquet  was  obliged  to  tell  his  friend  that  he 
must  renounce  his  desire;  that  in  a  city  in  which 
the  number  of  tears  embroidered  on  black  draperies 
is  tariffed,  where  the  laws  recognize  seven  classes 
of  funerals,  where  the  ground  for  the  dead  is  sold 
for  its  weight  in  silver,  where  grief  is  exploited, 
kept  by  double  entry,  where  the  prayers  of  the 
Church  are  paid  for  dearly,  where  the  vestry  inter- 
venes to  claim  payment  for  two  or  three  slender 


176  FERRAGUS 

voices  added  to  the  Dies  ircB, — all  attempt  to  get  out 
of  the  administrative  rut  prescribed  for  grief  is 
impossible. 

"It  would  have  been,"  said  Jules,  "a.  comfort  in 
my  misery,  I  had  meant  to  die  far  away  from 
here,  and  I  hoped  to  hold  Clemence  in  my  arms  in 
the  tomb!  I  did  not  know  that  the  bureaucracy 
could  extend  its  claws  into  our  very  coffins." 

He  now  wished  to  see  if  room  had  been  left  for 
him  beside  his  wife.  The  two  friends  went  to  the 
cemetery.  When  they  reached  it,  they  found,  as  at 
the  doors  of  the  theatres  or  the  entrance  to  museums, 
as  in  the  court  yards  of  the  diligences,  ciceroni  who 
offered  to  guide  them  through  the  labyrinth  of  Pere- 
Lachaise.  It  would  have  been  impossible  for  either 
of  them  to  find  the  spot  where  Clemence  lay.  Ah! 
frightful  anguish!  They  went  to  consult  the  porter 
of  the  cemetery.  The  dead  have  a  concierge,  and 
there  are  hours  when  the  dead  are  not  to  be  seen. 
It  would  be  necessary  to  upset  all  the  regulations  of 
the  upper  and  lower  police  to  obtain  permission  to 
come  and  weep  in  the  night  in  silence  and  solitude, 
over  the  tomb  where  a  loved  one  lies.  There  is  a 
regulation  for  winter,  a  regulation  for  summer. 
Certainly,  of  all  the  porters  in  Paris  he  of  P^re- 
Lachaise  is  the  luckiest.  In  the  first  place,  he  has 
no  gate-cord  to  pull ;  then,  instead  of  a  lodge  he  has 
a  house,  an  establishment,  which  is  not  quite  min- 
isterial although  there  are  a  very  great  number  of 
administrators  and  several  employes,  and  this  gov- 
ernor of  the  dead  has  an   income  and  is  endowed 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  1 77 

with  immense  powers,  of  which  none  can  complain; 
he  plays  the  despot  at  his  ease.  His  lodge  is  not  a 
commercial  establishment,  although  it  has  offices,  a 
system  of  accounts,  receipts,  expenses  and  profits. 
This  man  is  not  a  Suisse,  nor  a  concierge,  nor  a 
porter;  the  gate  which  admits  the  dead  stands 
always  wide  open,  and  although  there  are  monu- 
ments to  be  cared  for  he  is  not  a  care-taker;  in 
short,  he  is  an  indefinable  anomaly,  an  authority 
which  participates  in  all  and  yet  is  nothing,  an 
authority  placed — like  death  by  which  it  lives — 
outside  of  all.  Nevertheless,  this  exceptional  man 
grows  out  of  the  city  of  Paris,  a  chimerical  creation 
like  the  ship  which  serves  as  its  emblem,  a  crea- 
ture of  reason,  moved  by  a  thousand  paws  which 
are  seldom  unanimous  in  their  motion,  so  that  its 
employes  are  almost  irremovable.  This  guardian 
of  the  cemetery  is,  then,  the  concierge  arrived  at 
the  condition  of  a  functionary,  not  soluble  by  disso- 
lution. His  place  is  by  no  means  a  sinecure;  he 
does  not  allow  anyone  to  be  buried  without  a  per- 
mit, he  must  count  his  dead,  he  points  out  to  you 
in  this  vast  field  the  six  square  feet  where  you  will 
one  day  put  all  you  love  or  all  you  hate,  a  mistress 
or  a  cousin.  Yes,  know  this  well,  all  the  feelings 
and  emotions  of  Paris  come  to  end  at  this  porter's 
lodge,  and  there  are  administrationized.  This  man 
has  registers  for  his  dead,  they  are  in  their  tombs 
and  in  his  books.  He  has  under  him  keepers, 
gardeners,  grave-diggers,  assistants.  He  is  a  per- 
sonage. The  mourners  in  tears  do  not  speak  to 
12 


178  FERRAGUS 

him  at  first  He  only  appears  in  serious  cases, — 
one  corpse  mistaken  for  another,  a  murdered  body, 
an  exhumation,  a  dead  man  who  comes  to  life. 
The  bust  of  the  reigning  king  is  in  his  hall,  and  he 
perhaps  preserves  the  ancient  royal,  imperial,  and 
quasi-royal  busts  in  some  cupboard,  a  sort  of  little 
Pere-Lachaise  all  ready  for  revolutions.  In  short, 
he  is  a  public  man,  an  excellent  man,  good  father 
and  good  husband, — epitaph  apart.  But  so  many 
diverse  sentiments  have  passed  before  him  on  biers, 
he  has  seen  so  many  tears,  true  and  false;  he  has 
seen  sorrow  under  so  many  countenances  and  on  so 
many  countenances,  he  has  seen  six  millions  of 
eternal  woes!  For  him,  a  grief  is  no  longer  any- 
thing but  a  stone,  eleven  lines  in  thickness  and  four 
feet  in  height,  twenty-two  inches  wide.  As  for 
regrets,  they  are  the  annoyances  of  his  office, — 
he  neither  breakfasts  nor  dines  without  first  wiping 
off  the  rain  of  an  inconsolable  affliction.  He  is 
kind  and  tender  to  all  other  feelings;  he  will  weep 
over  some  hero  of  the  drama,  over  Monsieur  Ger- 
meuil  in  the  Aiiherge  des  Adrets,  the  man  with 
the  butter-colored  breeches  assassinated  by  Robert 
Macaire;  but  his  heart  is  ossified  in  the  matter  of 
real  dead  men.  The  dead  are  only  numbers  to  him ; 
it  is  his  business  to  organize  death.  Then,  finally, 
he  does  meet,  three  times  in  a  century,  a  situation 
in  which  his  role  becomes  sublime,  and  then  he  is 
sublime  every  hour, — in  times  of  pestilence. 

When  Jacquet  accosted  him,  this  absolute  mon- 
arch was  in  a  sufficiently-bad  humor. 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  179 

**I  told  you,"  he  cried,  "to  water  the  flowers 
from  Rue  Massena  to  the  Place  Regnaud-de-Saint- 
Jean-d'Angely !  You  paid  no  attention  to  me — you 
there.  Sac  ct  papier!  if  the  relations  should  take  it 
into  their  heads  to  come  to-day  because  the  weather 
is  fine  they  would  all  get  at  me, — they  would  shriek 
as  if  they  were  burned,  they  would  say  horrid 
things  of  us  and  calumniate  us — " 

"Monsieur,"  said  Jacquet  to  him,  "we  wish  to 
know  where  Madame  Jules  is  buried." 

"Madame  Jules  who?"  he  asked.  "Within  the 
last  week  we  have  had  three  Madame  Jules. —Ah," 
he  said,  interrupting  himself,  "here  comes  the 
funeral  of  Colonel  de  Maulincour,  go  and  get  the 
permit. — A  fine  procession  that!"  he  resumed. 
"He  has  soon  followed  his  grandmother.  Some 
families,  when  they  begin  to  go,  rattle  down  as  if 
for  a  wager.  There  is  plenty  of  bad  blood  in  these 
Parisians." 

"Monsieur, "  said  Jacquet,  touching  him  on  the 
arm,  "the  person  of  whom  I  speak  is  Madame  Jules 
Desmarets,  the  wife  of  the  broker  of  that  name." 

"Ah!  I  know,"  he  replied,  looking  at  Jacquet. 
"Was  not  that  the  funeral  in  which  there  were 
thirteen  mourning  coaches  and  only  one  mourner  in 
each  of  the  first  twelve }  That  was  so  droll  that  it 
struck  us  all — " 

"Monsieur,  take  care.  Monsieur  Jules  is  with 
me,  he  might  hear  you,  and  what  you  say  is  not 
seemly." 

"I  beg  pardon,  Monsieur — you  are  right.     Excuse 


l80  FERRAGUS 

me,  I  took  you  for  the  heirs. — Monsieur,"  he  con- 
tinued, consulting  a  plan  of  the  cemetery,  "Madame 
Jules  is  in  the  Rue  Marechal-Lefebvre,  Alley  No. 
4,  between  Mademoiselle  Raucourt  of  the  Comedie- 
Fran^aise  and  Monsieur  Moreau-Malvin,  a  distin- 
guished butcher,  for  whom  a  handsome  tomb  in 
white  marble  has  been  ordered,  which  will  certainly 
be  one  of  the  finest  in  our  cemetery." 

"Monsieur,"  said  Jacquet,  interrupting  him, 
"that  does  not  help  us." 

"That's  true,"  he  replied  looking  around  him. 

"Jean,"  he  cried  to  a  man  whom  he  saw  at  a 
little  distance,  "conduct  these  gentlemen  to  the 
grave  of  Madame  Jules,  the  wife  of  the  broker. 
You  know  it,  near  to  Mademoiselle  Raucourt,  the 
tomb  where  there  is  a  bust." 

And  the  two  friends  followed  one  of  the  keepers ; 
but  they  did  not  reach  the  steep  path  which  leads  to 
the  upper  alley  of  the  cemetery  without  having  to 
pass  through  more  than  a  score  of  propositions  offered 
to  them  with  a  honeyed  softness  by  the  agents  of 
marble-workers,  iron-founders  and  monumental 
sculptors. 

"If  Monsieur  would  like  to  order  something,  we 
could  arrange  it  for  him  on  the  most  reasonable 
terms. — " 

Jacquet  was  fortunate  enough  to  be  able  to  spare 
his  friend  the  hearing  of  these  proposals,  so  fearful 
for  still  bleeding  hearts,  and  they  finally  reached 
the  resting-place.  When  he  saw  this  earth  so 
recently  turned,  and  in  which  the  masons  had  stuck 


I 


I 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  l8l 

stakes  to  mark  the  places  for  the  stone  posts  re- 
quired to  support  the  iron  railing,  Jules  leaned  on 
the  shoulder  of  Jacquet,  raising  himelf  at  intervals 
to  cast  long  glances  at  the  clay  mould  where  he  was 
forced  to  leave  the  remains  of  the  being  by  whom 
he  still  lived. 

"How  miserably  she  lies  there,"  he  said. 

"But  she  is  not  there,"  replied  Jacquet,  "she  is  in 
your  memory.  Come,  let  us  go,  let  us  leave  this 
odious  cemetery,  where  the  dead  are  adorned  like 
women  for  a  ball." 

"Suppose  we  take  her  away  from  there? " 

"Can  it  be  done?  " 

"All  things  can  be  done,"  cried  Jules. — "So  I 
shall  lie  there,"  he  added  after  a  pause.  "There 
is  room  enough. " 

Jacquet  finally  succeeded  in  getting  him  to  leave 
this  great  enclosure,  divided  like  a  chess-board  by 
bronze  railings,  by  elegant  compartments,  in  which 
were  enclosed  the  tombs  decorated  with  palms, 
with  inscriptions,  with  tears  as  cold  as  the  stones  on 
which  sorrowing  hearts  had  caused  to  be  carved 
their  regrets  and  their  coats  of  arms.  Many  clever 
phrases  are  there  engraved  in  black  letters,  epi- 
grams reproving  the  curious,  concetti,  wittily  turned 
farewells,  rendezvous  given  at  which  only  one  side 
ever  appears,  pretentious  biographies,  glitter,  rub- 
bish and  tinsel.  Here,  may  be  seen  the  thyrsus; 
there,  lance  heads ;  farther  on,  Egyptian  urns,  now 
and  then  a  few  cannons,  on  all  sides  the  emblems  of 
a  thousand  professions ;  in  short  all  styles, — Moorish, 


l82  FERRAGUS 

Greek,  Gothic,  friezes,  ovules,  paintings,  urns, 
Genii,  temples,  a  great  many  faded  immortelles 
and  dead  rosebushes.  It  is  a  forlorn  comedy !  it  is 
another  Paris,  with  its  streets,  its  signs,  its  indus- 
tries, its  lodgings;  but  seen  through  the  diminish- 
ing end  of  an  opera-glass,  a  microscopic  Paris, 
reduced  to  the  littleness  of  shadows,  of  the  larvae 
of  the  dead,  a  human  race  which  has  no  longer  any- 
thing great  about  it  except  its  vanity.  Then  Jules 
saw  at  his  feet,  in  the  long  valley  of  the  Seine, 
between  the  slopes  of  Vaugirard  and  Meudon,  be- 
tween those  of  Belleville  and  Montmartre,  the  real 
Paris,  enveloped  in  a  bluish  veil  produced  by  its 
smoke  and  which  the  sunlight  rendered  at  this 
moment  diaphanous.  He  embraced  in  his  furtive 
glance  these  forty  thousand  houses,  and  said,  point- 
ing to  the  space  comprised  between  the  column  of 
the  Place  Vendome  and  the  gilded  cupola  of  the 
Invalides: 

"She  was  carried  away  from  me  there  by  the 
fatal  curiosity  of  that  world  which  excites  itself 
and  interferes  for  the  purpose  of  interfering  and 
exciting  itself." 

At  a  distance  of  four  leagues,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Seine,  in  a  modest  village  lying  on  the  slope  of  one 
of  the  hills  of  that  long  hilly  enclosure  in  the  mid- 
dle of  which  great  Paris  stirs  like  a  child  in  its 
cradle,  a  scene  of  death  and  of  sorrow  was  taking 
place,  far  indeed  removed  from  all  the  Parisian 
pomps,  with  no  accompaniment  of  torches,  or  of 
tapers,  or  mourning  coaches,  without  the  prayers  of 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  183 

the  Church,  death  in  all  its  simplicity.  Here  are 
the  facts:  The  body  of  a  young  girl  was  found 
early  in  the  morning,  stranded  on  the  river  bank, 
in  the  slime  and  reeds  of  the  Seine.  Some  men 
employed  in  dredging  sand  saw  it  as  they  were  get- 
ting into  their  frail  boat,  on  their  way  to  their  work. 

"Look  there!  Fifty  francs  earned,"  said  one  of 
them. 

"That  is  true,"  said  the  other. 

And  they  approached  the  body. 

"It  is  a  very  pretty  girl." 

"Let  us  go  and  make  our  statement." 

And  the  two  sand-dredgers,  after  covering  the 
body  with  their  jackets,  went  to  the  village  mayor, 
who  was  much  embarrassed  at  having  to  make  out 
the  legal  papers  necessitated  by  this  discovery. 

The  news  of  this  event  spread  with  that  tele- 
graphic rapidity  peculiar  to  regions  where  social 
communications  have  no  interruption,  where  the 
scandal,  the  gossip,  the  calumnies,  the  social  tale 
on  which  the  world  regales  itself,  have  no  break  of 
continuity  from  one  boundary  to  another.  Before 
long,  some  persons  arriving  at  the  mayor's  office 
relieved  him  from  all  embarrassment.  They  were 
able  to  convert  the  proces-verbal  into  a  simple  cer- 
tificate of  death.  Through  them  the  body  of  the 
young  girl  was  recognized  as  that  of  the  demoiselle 
Ida  Gruget,  corset  maker,  living  at  Rue  de  la  Corde- 
rie-du-Temple,  No.  14.  The  judiciary  police  inter- 
vened, the  widow  Gruget,  mother  of  the  defunct, 
arrived,  bringing  with  her   the  last  letter  of  her 


1 


1 84  FERRAGUS 

daughter.  Amidst  the  mother's  lamentations  a 
doctor  certified  to  death  by  asphyxia,  through  the 
injection  of  black  blood  into  the  pulmonary  system, 
and  everything  was  said.  The  inquest  over,  the 
certificate  signed,  by  six  o'clock  the  same  evening 
authority  was  given  to  bury  the  grisette.  The  cure 
of  the  place  refused  to  receive  her  into  the  church 
and  to  pray  for  her.  Ida  Gruget  was  therefore 
wrapped  in  a  shroud  by  an  old  peasant  woman,  put 
into  a  common  coffin  made  of  pine  planks,  and  car- 
ried to  the  village  cemetery  by  four  men,  followed 
by  a  few  curious  peasant  women  who  discussed  this 
death,  commenting  upon  it  with  wonder  mingled  _ 

with   some   commiseration.      The    widow   Gruget  ( 

was  charitably  taken  in  by  an  old  lady  who  pre- 
vented her  from  following  in  the  sad  procession  of 
her  daughter's  funeral.  A  man  of  triple  functions, 
the  bell-ringer,  beadle  and  grave-digger  of  the  par- 
ish, had  dug  a  grave  in  the  village  cemetery,  a 
cemetery  half  an  acre  in  extent  behind  the 
church,— a  church  well  known,  a  classic  church, 
furnished  with  a  square  tower  with  a  pointed  roof 
covered  with  slate,  supported  on  the  outside  by 
angular  buttresses.  Behind  the  circular  back  of  the 
chancel  lay  the  cemetery,  enclosed  with  a  dilapi- 
dated wall,— a  little  field  full  of  hillocks;  no  mar- 
bles, no  visitors,  but  surely  in  every  furrow  tears 
and  true  regrets  which  were  lacking  for  Ida  Gruget. 
She  was  cast  into  a  corner  among  the  brambles  and 
the  tall  grass.  When  the  coffin  had  been  laid  in 
this   field,  so  poetic   in    its  simplicity,   the  grave 


I 
I 


i 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  185 

digger  found  himself  alone,  with  the  night  falling. 
While  filling  the  grave  he  stopped  now  and  then  to 
gaze  over  the  wall  along  the  road ;  at  one  moment 
with  his  hand  on  his  spade  he  was  looking  at  the 
Seine  which  had  brought  him  this  body. 

"Poor  girl!"  cried  a  man  who  suddenly  appeared. 

"How  you  frightened  me,  Monsieur,"  said  the 
grave-digger. 

"Was  there  any  service  held  over  the  body  you 
are  burying? " 

"No,  Monsieur.  Monsieur  le  cure  was  not  will- 
ing. This  is  the  first  person  buried  here  who 
didn't  belong  to  the  parish.  Here,  everybody 
knows  everybody  else.  Does  Monsieur— why,  he's 
gone! " 

Some  days  had  elapsed  when  a  man  dressed  in 
black  called  at  the  house  of  Jules,  and  without  ask- 
ing to  see  him  deposited  in  his  wife's  chamber  a 
great  porphyry  vase  on  which  he  read  these  words: 

INVITA  LEGE, 

CONJUGI   MOERENTI 
FILIOL^  CINERES 

RESTITUIT. 

AMICIS  XII.  JUVANTIBUS, 

MORIBUNDUS  PATER. 

"What  a  man!"  cried  Jules,  bursting  into 
tears. 

Eight  days  sufficed  the  husband  to  carry  out  all 
the   wishes   of   his   wife   and  to  arrange  his   own 


l86  FERRAGUS 

affairs;  he  sold  his  practice  to  a  brother  of  Martin 
Faleix,  and  left  Paris  while  the  authorities  were 
still  discussing  whether  it  was  lawful  for  a  citizen 
to  dispose  of  the  body  of  his  wife. 

Who  has  not  encountered  on  the  Boulevards  of 
Paris,  at  the  turn  of  the  street,  or  beneath  the 
arcades  of  the  Palais-Royal,  or  in  fact  in  any  part 
of  the  world  where  chance  may  offer  him  the  sight, 
a  being,  man  or  woman,  at  whose  aspect  a  thousand 
confused  thoughts  spring  into  his  mind  ?  At  the 
appearance  of  this  being  we  are  suddenly  inter- 
ested, either  by  features  whose  fantastic  conforma- 
tion reveals  an  agitated  life,  or  by  the  curious 
general  effect  produced  by  the  gestures,  the  air,  the 
gait,  and  the  garments,  or  by  some  profound  look, 
or  by  other  inexpressible  signs  which  impress  us 
forcibly  and  suddenly,  without  our  being  able  to 
exactly  explain  to  ourselves  the  cause  of  our  emo- 
tion. The  next  day,  other  thoughts,  other  Parisian 
images,  carry  away  this  passing  dream.  But  if  we 
meet  the  same  personage  again,  either  passing  at 
some  fixed  hour  like  an  employe  of  the  mayor's 
office  who  belongs  to  the  marriage-bureau  during 
eight  hours,  or  wandering  about  the  public  prome- 
nades, like  those  individuals  who  seem  to  be  a  sort 
of  furniture  belonging  to  the  Parisian  streets  and 
who  are  always  to  be  found  in  the  public  places,  at 
first  representations,  or  in  the  noted  restaurants  of 
which  they  are  the  finest  ornament, — then  this 
being  enfeoffs  himself  in  your  memory  and  remains 
there,  like  the  first  volume  of  a  novel,  the  end  of 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  1 87 

which  is  lost.  We  are  tempted  to  question  this 
unknown  and  say  to  him,  "Who  are  you?  Why 
are  you  lounging  here?  By  what  right  do  you  wear 
that  plaited  rulifle,  why  do  you  carry  a  cane  with 
an  ivory  top,  why  that  faded  waistcoat?  Why 
those  blue  spectacles  with  double  glasses?"  Or, 
"Why  do  you  still  wear  the  cravat  of  the  Musca- 
dins?  "  Among  these  wandering  creatures  there 
are  some  that  belong  to  the  species  of  the  ancient 
terminal  statues;  they  say  nothing  to  the  soul; 
they  are  there,  and  that  is  all:  Why?  No  one 
knows;  they  are  figures,  like  those  which  serve  as 
a  type  to  the  sculptors  for  the  four  Seasons,  for 
Commerce,  for  Plenty.  Some  others,  former  law- 
yers, old  merchants,  antique  generals,  go  about, 
walk,  and  yet  seem  always  stationary.  Like  those 
trees  which  hang,  half-uprooted,  over  the  banks  of 
a  stream,  they  seem  never  to  take  part  in  the  tor- 
rent of  Paris  nor  in  its  youthful,  active  crowd.  It 
is  impossible  to  know  if  it  has  been  forgotten  to 
bury  them,  or  if  they  have  escaped  from  their 
coffins ;  they  have  reached  a  quasi-fossil  condition. 
One  of  these  Parisian  Melmoths  had  come  within  a 
few  days  to  mingle  with  the  sober  and  quiet  popula- 
tion which,  when  the  weather  is  fine,  invariably 
furnishes  the  space  which  lies  between  the  south 
entrance  of  the  Luxembourg  and  the  north  entrance 
of  the  Observatoire,  a  space  without  a  class,  the 
neutral  space  of  Paris.  In  fact,  Paris  is  no  longer 
there;  and  there  Paris  still  lingers.  This  spot  par- 
takes at  once  of  the  street,  the  place,  the  boulevard, 


1 88  FERRAGUS 

the  fortification,  the  garden,  the  avenue,  the  high- 
road, of  the  province  and  of  the  capital ;  certainly 
all  that  is  to  be  found  there,  and  yet  the  place  is 
nothing  of  all  that, — it  is  a  desert  Around  this 
spot  without  a  name  stand  the  hospital  of  the  En- 
fants  Trouves,  the  Bourbe,  the  Cochin  Hospital,  the 
Capucins,  the  hospital  La  Rochefoucauld,  the  Deaf 
and  Dumb  Asylum,  the  hospital  of  the  Val-de- 
Grace;  in  short,  all  the  vices  and  all  the  misfor- 
tunes of  Paris  find  there  their  asylum;  and  that 
nothing  may  be  lacking  to  this  philanthropic  enclo- 
sure, science  there  studies  the  tides  and  the  longi- 
tudes; Monsieur  de  Chateaubriand  has  erected 
there  the  Marie-Therese  Infirmary,  and  the  Carmel- 
ites have  founded  a  convent  there.  The  great  events 
of  life  are  represented  by  bells  which  ring  inces- 
santly through  this  desert,  for  the  mother  giving 
birth,  and  for  the  babe  that  is  born,  and  for  the 
vice  that  succumbs,  and  for  the  workman  who  dies, 
for  the  virgin  who  prays,  for  the  old  man  who  is 
cold,  for  genius  which  deludes  itself.  Then,  at  a 
distance  of  two  steps,  is  the  cemetery  of  Mont- 
Parnasse,  which  draws  hour  after  hour  to  itself  the 
sorry  funerals  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Marceau.  This 
esplanade,  which  commands  a  view  of  Paris,  has 
been  taken  possession  of  by  the  players  of  bowls, 
old  gray  figures,  full  of  kindliness,  worthy  men  who 
continue  our  ancestors,  and  whose  physiognomies 
can  only  be  compared  with  those  of  their  public, 
the  moving  gallery  which  follows  them.  The  man 
who   had    become    during    the    last   few   days   an 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  1 89 

inhabitant  of  this  desert  region  assisted  assiduously 
at  these  games  of  bowls,  and  would  certainly  be 
considered  the  most  striking  creature  of  these  vari- 
ous groups  who — if  it  be  permissible  to  liken  the 
Parisians  to  the  different  orders  of  zoology — belong 
to  the  genus  mollusk.  This  new-comer  kept  sym- 
pathetic step  with  the  cochonnei,  the  little  bowl 
which  serves  as  the  point  aimed  at  and  on  which 
the  interest  of  the  game  centres;  he  leaned  against 
a  tree  when  the  cochonnet  stopped ;  then,  with  the 
same  attention  that  a  dog  gives  to  his  master's  ges- 
tures, he  watched  the  bowls  flying  through  the  air 
or  rolling  along  the  ground.  You  would  have  taken 
him  for  the  fantastic  genius  of  the  cochonnet.  He 
said  nothing,  and  the  bowl-players,  the  most  fanatic 
men  that  can  be  encountered  among  the  sectarians 
of  any  religion  whatever,  had  never  asked  him  the 
reason  of  this  obstinate  silence;  only  some  very 
great  minds  thought  him  deaf  and  dumb.  On 
those  occasions  on  which  it  became  necessary  to 
determine  the  different  distances  between  the  bowls 
and  the  cochonnet,  the  cane  of  the  unknown  served 
as  the  infallible  measure,  the  players  coming  up 
and  taking  it  from  the  icy  hands  of  this  old  man, 
without  asking  him  for  the  loan  of  it,  without  even 
making  him  a  sign  of  friendliness.  The  loan  of  his 
cane  was  like  a  servitude  to  which  he  had  nega- 
tively consented.  When  a  shower  came  up,  he 
remained  near  the  cochonnet,  the  slave  of  the 
bowls,  the  guardian  of  the  unfinished  game.  Rain 
affected  him  no  more  than  the  fine  weather  did,  and 


igO  FERRAGUS 

he  was  like  the  players  themselves,  an  interme- 
diary species  between  the  Parisian  who  has  the 
least  intelligence  of  his  kind  and  the  animal  which 
has  the  highest.  In  other  respects,  pallid  and 
shrunken,  indifferent  to  his  own  person,  vacant  in 
mind,  he  often  came  bare-headed,  showing  his 
white  hair  and  his  square,  yellow,  bald  skull,  not 
unlike  the  knee  which  pierces  the  pantaloon  of  a 
beggar.  He  was  open-mouthed,  without  intelli- 
gence in  his  glance,  without  any  steadiness  in  his 
walk;  he  never  smiled,  never  lifted  his  eyes  to 
heaven,  and  kept  them  habitually  on  the  ground, 
where  he  seemed  to  be  always  looking  for  some- 
thing. At  four  o'clock  an  old  woman  arrived  to 
take  him  away,  no  one  knows  where,  towing  him 
along  by  the  arm  as  a  young  girl  drags  a  wilful 
goat  which  still  wants  to  browse  by  the  wayside 
when  it  should  go  to  the  stable.  This  old  man  was 
a  horrible  thing  to  see. 

In  the  afternoon,  Jules  Desmarets,  alone  in  his 
traveling  carriage,  passed  rapidly  through  Rue 
de  I'Est,  and  came  upon  the  esplanade  of  the  Ob- 
servatoire  at  the  moment  when  this  old  man,  lean- 
ing against  a  tree  had  allowed  his  cane  to  be 
taken  from  his  hand  amid  the  noisy  vocifera- 
tions of  the  players  pacifically  irritated.  Jules, 
thinking  he  recognized  that  face,  wished  to  stop, 
and  in  fact  his  carriage  came  to  a  standstill.  The 
postilion,  hemmed  in  by  some  carts,  did  not  ask  for 
a  passage-way  through  the  insurgent  bowl-players; 
he  had  too  much  respect  for  uprisings,  the  postilion. 


I 


CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS  191 

"It  is  he!  "  said  Jules,  beholding  in  that  human 
wreck  Ferragus  XXlil.,  Chief  of  the  Devorants. — 
"How  he  loved  her!"  he  added  after  a  pause. — 
"Go  on  postilion  !  "  he  cried. 

Paris,  February,  1833. 


0 


HISTORY  OF  THE  THIRTEEN 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 


13  (193) 


1 


i 


TO 
FRA-NTZ  LISTZ 


(195] 


'Cr^t.^^,&K/.  ^fS'i^^  'f/  :^. 


m 


THE  INTERVIEW  IN   THE  CONVENT 


"J/)'  Mother','  cried  Sister  TJieri^se  in  Spanish,  "/ 
]iave  lied  to  you,  this  man  is  my  lover  /" 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

* 

In  a  Spanish  town  on  an  island  of  the  Mediterra- 
nean there  is  a  convent  of  the  Bare-footed  Carmel- 
ites in  which  the  rule  of  the  Order  instituted  by 
Saint  Theresa  is  still  maintained  with  the  primi- 
tive rigor  of  the  reformation  brought  about  by  that 
illustrious  woman.  This  fact  is  true,  extraordinary 
as  it  may  seem.  Although  the  religious  establish- 
ments of  the  Peninsula  and  those  of  the  Continent 
were  nearly  all  destroyed  or  subverted  by  the  explo- 
sions of  the  French  Revolution  and  the  Napoleonic 
wars,  this  island  having  been  constantly  protected 
by  the  British  navy,  the  wealthy  convent  and  its 
peaceful  inmates  were  sheltered  from  the  general 
disasters  and  spoliation.  The  storms  of  every  kind 
which  disturbed  the  first  fifteen  years  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  broke  idly  on  this  rock,  not  far  from 
the  coast  of  Andalusia.  If  the  name  of  the  Emperor 
was  carried  even  to  this  shore,  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  the  fantastic  train  of  his  glory  and  the 
flaming  majesty  of  his  meteoric  life  were  ever 
realized  by  the  saintly  women  kneeling  in  this 
cloister.     A  conventual  rigor  which  nothing  relaxed 

(197) 


198  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

recommended  this  haven  to  the  Catholic  world. 
Moreover,  the  purity  of  its  rule  drew  to  it  from  the 
most  distant  parts  of  Europe  sorrowful  women,  whose 
souls,  deprived  of  all  human  ties,  sighed  for  this  slow 
suicide  accomplished  in  the  bosom  of  God.  NoH 
other  convent  moreover  was  better  adapted  to  that  ; 
complete  separation  from  the  things  of  this  world 
which  the  religious  life  demands.  Nevertheless,  i 
there  may  be  found  on  the  Continent  a  great  num- 
ber of  these  houses,  magnificently  built  in  view  of 
their  purpose.  Some  are  ensconced  in  the  depths 
of  the  most  solitary  valleys;  others  overhang  the 
steepest  mountains,  or  crown  the  brinks  of  preci- 
pices;  every  where  man  has  sought  the  poetry  of 
the  infinite,  the  solemn  horror  of  silence;  every- 
where he  has  desired  to  draw  closest  to  God ;  he 
has  sought  him  on  the  summits,  in  the  depths  of 
abysses,  on  the  edges  of  cliffs,  and  has  found  him 
everywhere.  Yet  nowhere  as  on  this  rock,  half 
European,  half  African,  could  be  found  so  many 
differing  harmonies  all  blending  to  so  elevate  the 
soul,  to  remove  the  most  dolorous  impressions,  to 
assuage  the  keenest,  to  give  from  the  sorrows  of 
life  a  profound  rest.  This  monastery  was  built  at 
the  extremity  of  the  island,  on  the  highest  point  of 
the  rock  which,  by  some  great  convulsion  of  nature, 
has  been  broken  off  sharply  on  the  side  of  the  sea, 
where  at  all  points  it  presents  the  sharp  angles  of 
its  surfaces,  slightly  worn  away  at  the  water  line, 
but  inaccessible.  This  rock  is  protected  from  all 
attack  by  dangerous  reefs  which  extend  far  out  into 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  I99 

the  sea,  and  among  which  play  the  sparkling  waves 
of  the  Mediterranean.  It  is  only  from  the  sea  that 
one  can  perceive  the  four  principal  parts  of  this 
square  structure,  whose  form,  height,  and  doorways, 
have  all  been  minutely  prescribed  by  monastic  laws. 
On  the  side  towards  the  town,  the  church  com- 
pletely hides  the  massive  building  of  the  cloister, 
with  its  roof  covered  with  large  tiles  which  render 
it  invulnerable  to  squalls,  storms,  and  the  fierce 
heat  of  the  sun.  The  church,  the  generous  gift  of 
a  Spanish  family,  crowns  the  town.  The  fagade, 
bold  and  elegant,  gives  a  noble  aspect  to  this  little 
maritime  town.  Is  not  the  view  of  a  city  with  its 
crowded  roofs,  nearly  all  of  them  disposed  like  an 
amphitheatre  before  a  beautiful  harbor,  and  rising 
above  all  a  magnificent  portal  with  Gothic  triglyph, 
with  campaniles,  slender  towers  and  pierced  spires,  a 
spectacle  full  of  terrestrial  grandeur  ?  Religion  dom- 
inating life,  in  offering  to  men  unceasingly  both 
the  end  and  the  way  of  life,  an  image  moreover 
altogether  Spanish!  Transplant  this  scene  to  the 
middle  of  the  Mediterranean  beneath  an  ardent  sky; 
add  to  it  palms,  and  dwarfed  perennial  trees,  which 
mingle  their  waving  green  fronds  with  the  sculptured 
leafage  of  the  immobile  architecture;  look  at  the 
white  fringes  of  the  sea  breaking  over  the  reefs  and 
contrasting  with  the  sapphire  blue  of  the  water; 
admire  the  galleries,  the  terraces  built  upon  the  roof 
of  each  house  where  the  inhabitants  come  to 
breathe  the  evening  air  among  the  flowers,  between 
the  tops  of  the  trees  of  their  little  gardens.     Then, 


200  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

in  the  harbor  some  white  sails.  And  lastly,  in 
the  serenity  of  the  early  evening,  listen  to  the 
music  of  the  organ,  the  chant  of  the  vespers,  the 
sweet  chimes  of  the  bells  on  the  open  sea.  Every- 
where, sound  and  calm ;  but  oftenest,  the  calm  every- 
where. Within,  the  church  was  divided  into  three 
naves,  dark  and  mysterious.  Doubtless  the  fury  of 
the  winds  forbade  the  architect  to  construct  those 
lateral  arched  buttresses  which  adorn  almost  all 
other  cathedrals,  and  between  which  are  constructed 
the  chapels,  hence  the  walls  which  flanked  the  two 
small  naves  and  sustained  this  structure,  admitted 
no  light  into  it  Exteriorly,  these  strong  walls  pre- 
sented the  aspect  of  their  gray  masses  supported  at 
intervals  by  enormous  buttresses.  The  great  nave 
and  its  two  small  lateral  galleries  were  therefore 
lighted  only  by  a  rose-window  of  stained  glass, 
placed  with  miraculous  art  over  the  portal,  whose 
favorable  exposure  had  permitted  a  wealth  of  stone 
lacework  and  the  beauty  peculiar  to  the  order  mis- 
called Gothic.  The  greater  part  of  these  three 
naves  was  given  up  to  the  townsfolk,  who  came  to 
hear  Mass  and  the  services.  In  front  of  the  choir 
was  a  railing,  behind  which  hung  a  brown  curtain 
with  ample  folds,  slightly  parted  in  the  middle  so  as 
to  allow  only  the  officiating  priest  and  the  altar  to  be 
seen.  This  railing  was  divided  at  equal  intervals 
by  pillars  which  supported  an  interior  gallery  and 
the  organs.  This  work  in  carved  wood,  in  harmony 
with  the  decoration  of  the  church,  formed  exter- 
nally the  small  columns  of  the  galleries  supported 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  201 

by  the  pillars  of  the  great  nave.  It  was  thus 
impossible  for  any  curious  person  who  might  be 
bold  enough  to  mount  upon  the  narrow  balustrade 
of  these  galleries  to  see  within  the  choir  anything 
but  the  long  octagonal  stained-glass  windows  which 
pierced  the  wall  at  equal  distances  around  the  high- 
altar. 

At  the  time  of  the  French  expedition  into  Spain 
for  the  purpose  of  reestablishing  the  authority  of 
King  Ferdinand  VII.,  and  after  the  fall  of  Cadiz,  a 
French  general,  sent  to  this  island  to  obtain  its 
recognition  of  the  Royal  Government,  prolonged  his 
stay  that  he  might  reconnoitre  this  convent,  if  pos- 
sible, and  gain  admittance.  The  enterprise  was, 
certainly,  a  delicate  one.  But  a  man  of  passion,  a 
man  whose  life  had  been — so  to  speak — a  series  of  \0^ 
poems  in  action,  and  who  had  always  lived  romances 
Instead  of  writing  them,  above  all,  a  man  of  deeds, 
might  well  be  tempted  by  a  project  apparently  im- 
possible. To  open  the  gates  of  a  convent  for  him- 
self, legally!  the  Pope  or  the  metropolitan  Arch- 
bishop himself  would  scarcely  have  sanctioned  it. 
To  employ  artifice  or  force,  in  case  of  failure,  was 
he  not  certain  to  lose  his  station,  all  his  military 
future,  and  miss  his  aim  in  addition.?  The  Due 
d'Angouleme  was  still  in  Spain,  and  of  all  the  indis- 
cretions which  a  man  in  favor  with  the  commander- 
in-chief  could  commit,  this  alone  would  be  punished 
without  pity.  This  general  had  solicited  his 
present  mission  for  the  purpose  of  satisfying  his 
secret  curiosity,  although  never  was  curiosity  more 


§y 


^' 


202  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

desperate.  But  this  last  effort  was  a  matter  of  con- 
science. The  house  of  these  Carmelites  was  the 
only  Spanish  convent  which  had  escaped  his  search. 
While  crossing  from  the  mainland,  a  voyage  which 
took  less  than  an  hour,  a  presentiment  favorable  to 
his  hopes  had  arisen  in  his  heart.  Since  then 
although  he  had  seen  nothing  of  the  convent  but  its 
walls,  and  of  the  nuns  not  so  much  as  their  robes, 
and  though  he  had  heard  nothing  but  the  chants  of 
their  liturgies,  yet  he  had  gathered  under  these 
walls  and  from  these  chants  faint  indications  that 
seemed  to  justify  his  slender  hope.  And,  slight  as 
were  the  auguries  thus  capriciously  awakened, 
never  was  human  passion  more  violently  aroused 
than  was  the  curiosity  of  the  general.  But  the 
heart  knows  no  insignificant  events;  it  magnifies 
all  things;  it  puts  in  the  same  balance  the  fall  of 
an  empire  of  fourteen  years'  duration  and  the  fall 
of  a  woman's  glove,  and  nearly  always  the  glove 
outweighs  the  empire.  Here,  then,  are  the  facts 
in  all  their  actual  simplicity.  After^the  facts  will 
come  the  emotions. 

An  hour  after  the  general  had  landed  on  this 
island  the  royal  authority  was  reestablished.  A 
few  constitutional  Spaniards,  who  had  taken  refuge 
there  by  night  after  the  fall  of  Cadiz,  embarked  on 
a  vessel  which  the  general  permitted  them  to  char- 
ter for  a  voyage  to  London.  There  was  thus  neither 
resistance  nor  reaction.  This  little  insular  restora- 
tion could  not,  however,  be  accomplished  without 
a  Mass,  at  which  must  necessarily  be  present  the  two 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  203 

companies  of  troops  of  the  expedition.  Not  being 
aware  of  the  rigor  of  the  cloister  among  the  Bare- 
footed Carmelites,  the  general  had  hoped  to  be  able 
to  obtain  in  the  church  some  information  concerning 
the  nuns  immured  in  the  convent,  one  of  whom 
might  be  a  being  dearer  to  him  than  life,  and  more 
precious  than  honor.  His  hopes  were  at  first  cruelly 
disappointed.  Mass  was  indeed  celebrated  with 
pomp,  hi  honor  of  this  solemn  occasion,  the  cur- 
tains which  habitually  hid  the  choir  were  drawn 
aside  and  gave  to  view  the  rich  ornaments,  the 
priceless  paintings  and  the  shrines  encrusted  with 
precious  stones  whose  brilliancy  effaced  that  of  the 
numerous  votive  offerings  in  gold  and  in  silver 
hung  by  the  mariners  of  the  port  on  the  pillars  of 
the  great  nave.  The  nuns  had  all  retired  to  the 
seclusion  of  the  organ-gallery.  Yet  in  spite  of  this 
first  check,  and  during  the  Mass  of  thanksgiving, 
there  suddenly  developed  a  drama  endowed  with 
more  secret  interests  than  had  ever  moved  the  heart 
of  man.  The  sister  who  played  the  organ  aroused 
an  enthusiasm  so  vivid  that  not  one  of  the  military 
contingent  present  regretted  the  order  which  had 
brought  him  to  the  ceremony.  The  common  sol- 
diers even  listened  with  pleasure,  and  all  the 
officers  were  ravished  by  it.  As  to  the  general,  he 
remained  calm  and  cold  in  appearance.  The  sensa-J 
tions  which  were  aroused  in  him  by  the  different 
selections  played  by  the  nun  rank  with  the  small 
number  of  things  whose  expression  words  can  not 
convey,    rendering   it   impotent,    but    which,    like 


\ 


204  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

death,  like  God,  like  eternity,  can  be  perceived  only 
y    at  their  slender  point  of  contact  with  man.     By  a 

'  strange  chance,  the  music  of  the  organ  seemed  to 
belong  to  the  school  of  Rossini,  the  composer  who 

./has  carried  more  liuman   passion  than  any  other 

>  into  the  art  of  music,  and  whose  works  will  some 
■  day,  by  their  number  and  their  extent,  inspire 
Homeric  respect.  Of  the  scores  of  this  fine  genius 
the  nun  seemed  to  have  more  particularly  studied 
that  of  Moses  in  Egypt,  doubtless  because  the  senti- 
ments of  sacred  music  are  there  carried  to  the 
highest  degree.  Perhaps  these  two  spirits,  the  one 
so  gloriously  European,  the  other  unknown,  had 
met  together  in  some  intuitive  perception  of  the 
same  poetry.  This  opinion  was  that  of  two  officers, 
true  dilettanti,  who  no  doubt  regretted  in  Spain  the 
theatre  Favart.  At  last,  in  the  Te  Deiim  it  was 
impossible  not  to  recognize  a  French  soul  in  the 
character  which  the  music  suddenly  took  on.  The 
triumph  of  His  Most  Christian  Majesty  evidently 
roused  the  keenest  joy  in  the  bottom  of  the  heart  of 

^  this  nun.  Surely,  she  was  a  French  woman.  Pres- 
ently the  patriotic  spirit  burst  forth,  sparkling  like 
a  jet  of  light  to  the  repeats  of  the  organ,  in  which 
the  sister  introduced  motifs  which  breathed  all  the 
delicacy  of  Parisian  taste,  and  with  which  were 
vaguely  blended  sentiments  of  our  finest  national 
anthems. 

Spanish  hands  could  never  have  put  into  this 
graceful  homage  to  victorious  arms  the  fire  that  thus 
betrayed  the  origin  of  the  musician. 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  205 

"There  is,  then,  France  everywhere?"  said  a 
soldier. 

The  general  left  the  church  during  the  Te  Deum, 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  listen  to  it.  The  notes 
of  the  musician  revealed  to  him  at  last  the  woman 
madly  loved,  and  who  had  buried  herself  so  deeply 
in  the  heart  of  religion  and  had  so  carefully  hidden 
herself  away  from  the  sight  of  the  world  that  she 
had  escaped  up  to  this  time  the  most  persistent 
search  skilfully  set  on  foot  by  men  armed  not  only 
with  great  power  but  with  superior  intelligence. 
The  suspicion  awakened  in  the  general's  heart  was 
almost  justified  by  the  vague  echo  of  an  air  of 
sweet  melancholy,  Fleuve  du  Tage,  a  French  bal- 
lad, of  which  he  had  often  heard  the  prelude  in  the 
Parisian  boudoir  of  the  woman  he  loved,  and  which 
this  nun  now  used  to  express  amid  the  joy  of  the  con- 
querors the  regrets  of  an  exile.  A  terrible  sensa- 
tion !  To  hope  for  the  resurrection  of  a  lost  love, 
to  find  it  again  still  lost,  to  have  a  mysterious 
glimpse  of  it  after  five  years  during  which  passion 
had  been  exasperated  by  the  void  and  intensified 
by  the  inutility  of  the  efforts  made  to  satisfy  it! 

Who  has  not,  once  at  least,  in  his  life,  overturned 
everything  about  him,  his  papers,  his  house,  ran- 
sacked his  memory  impatiently,  in  searching  for 
some  precious  object  and  then  felt  the  ineffable 
pleasure  of  finding  it  after  a  day  or  two  consumed 
in  the  vain  search ;  after  having  hoped  and  despaired 
of  its  recovery;  after  having  expended  the  liveliest 
irritations  of  the  soul  for    this  important  nothing 


206  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

which  has  caused  almost  a  passion?  Well,  extend 
this  kind  of  fury  through  five  years;  put  a  woman, 
a  heart,  a  love,  in  the  place  of  this  nothing;  lift  the 
passion  into  the  highest  realms  of  feelings;  and 
then  picture  to  yourself  an  ardent  man,  a  man  with 
the  heart  and  the  face  of  a  lion,  one  of  those  men 
with  a  mane,  who  are  imposing  and  who  communi- 
cate to  all  those  about  them  a  respectful  terror. 
Perhaps  you  will  then  understand  the  abrupt  de- 
parture of  the  general  during  the  Te  Deimi,  at  the 
moment  when  the  prelude  of  an  air  once  heard  with 
delight  under  gilded  ceilings,  vibrated  through  the 
nave  of  this  church  by  the  sea. 

He  descended  the  steep  street  which  led  up  to  the 
church,  and  did  not  stop  until  the  deep  tones  of  the 
organ  no  longer  reached  his  ear.  Unable  to  think 
of  anything  but  the  love  whose  volcanic  eruption 
fired  his  heart,  he  only  perceived  that  the  Te  Deum 
was  ended  when  the  Spanish  congregation  poured 
from  the  church.  He  felt  that  his  conduct  and 
appearance  might  appear  ridiculous,  and  he  returned 
to  take  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  procession, 
explaining  to  the  alcade  and  to  the  governor  of  the 
town  that  a  sudden  indisposition  had  obliged  him  to 
come  out  into  the  air.  Then  it  suddenly  occurred 
to  him  to  use  this  pretext  at  first  carelessly  given 
as  a  means  of  prolonging  his  stay  on  the  island. 
Excusing  himself  because  of  the  aggravation  of  his 
discomfort,  he  declined  to  preside  at  the  banquet 
offered  by  the  authorities  of  the  island  to  the  French 
officers;    he  took  to  his  bed  after  writing  to  the 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  207 

major-general  that  a  passing  illness  compelled  him 
to  turn  over  his  command  to  the  colonel.  This 
artifice,  so  commonplace  but  so  natural,  left  him 
free  from  all  duties  during  the  time  necessary  for 
the  accomplishment  of  his  projects.  In  his  char- 
acter of  a  man  essentially  catholic  and  monarchical  he 
acquainted  himself  with  the  hours  of  the  various 
services  and  affected  the  utmost  interest  in  the 
duties  of  religion, — a  piety  which  in  Spain  would 
excite  no  surprise. 

The  very  next  day,  while  his  soldiers  were 
embarking,  the  general  went  up  to  the  convent  to 
be  present  at  vespers.  He  found  the  church  deserted 
by  the  townspeople  who,  in  spite  of  their  devotion, 
had  all  gone  to  the  port  to  see  the  embarkation  of 
the  troops.  The  Frenchman,  glad  to  fmd  himself 
alone  in  the  church,  took  care  to  make  the  clink  of 
his  spurs  resound  under  the  vaulted  roof.  He 
walked  noisily,  he  coughed,  he  spoke  aloud  to  him- 
self, in  order  to  inform  the  nuns,  and  above  all  the 
organist,  that  if  the  French  were  departing,  one,  at 
least,  remained  behind.  Was  this  singular  method 
of  communication  heard,  understood  ? — the  general 
believed  it  was.  In  the  Magnificat,  the  organ 
seemed  to  send  him  a  response  which  was 
brought  him  by  the  vibrations  of  the  air.  The 
soul  of  the  nun  floated  towards  him  on  the 
wings  of  her  notes,  quivering  in  the  movements 
of  the  sounds.  The  music  burst  forth  in  all  its 
power;  it  inspired  the  church.  This  hymn  of  joy, 
consecrated    by    the    sublime    liturgy    of    Roman 


208  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

Christianity  to  the  uplifting  of  the  soul  in  presence 
of  the  splendors  of  the  ever-living  God,  became  the 
expression  of  a  heart  almost  terrified  at  its  own  hap- 
piness in  the  presence  of  the  splendors  of  a  perish- 
able love  which  still  lived  and  came  to  move  it  once 
more  beyond  the  religious  tomb  in  which  women  are 
buried  to  rise  again,  brides  of  Christ. 


* 

The  organ  is  beyond  all  question  the  grandest,  the 
most  daring,  the  most  magnificent  of  all  the  instru- 
ments created  by  human  genius.  It  is  an  orchestra 
in  itself,  from  which  a  skilful  hand  may  demand  all 
things,  it  can  express  all  things.  Is  it  not  in  some 
sort  an  elevation  on  which  the  soul  may  poise  itself 
ere  it  launches  itself  into  space,  endeavoring  to  per- 
ceive in  its  flight  a  thousand  scenes,  to  depict  life, 
to  traverse  the  infinite  which  separates  heaven  from 
earth?  The  longer  a  poet  listens  to  its  gigantic 
harmonies  the  more  will  he  be  inclined  to  believe 
that  between  kneeling  humanity  and  the  God  hid- 
den by  the  dazzling  rays  of  the  sanctuary,  the  hun- 
dred voices  of  this  terrestrial  choir  can  alone  fill  the 
vast  distance  and  serve  as  the  only  interpreter 
strong  enough  to  transmit  to  heaven  human  prayers 
in  the  omnipotence  of  their  desires,  in  the  diversity 
of  their  melancholy,  with  the  tints  of  their  medita- 
tive ecstasies,  with  the  impetuous  spring  of  their 
repentance  and  the  thousand  imaginations  of  their 
beliefs.  Yes,  beneath  these  long  vaults,  the  har- 
monies born  of  the  genius  of  sacred  things  find 
grandeurs  yet  unheard  of  with  which  they  adorn, 
with  which  they  strengthen  themselves.  There,  the 
dim  light,  the  profound  silence,  the  chants  alternat- 
ing with  the  thunder  of  the  organ,  seem  to  make 
for  God  a  veil  through  which  His  luminous  attributes 
14  (209) 


2IO  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

radiate.     All  these  sacred  riches  now  seemed  flung 
like  a  grain  of  incense  on  the   frail   altar   of  an 

V    earthly  love,  before  the  eternal  throne  of  a  jealous 
and  avenging  God.     In  fact,  the  joy  of  the  nun  had 
not  that  character  of  grandeur  and  of  gravity  which 
is  in  harmony  with  the  solemnity  of  the  Magnificat; 
she  gave  to  the  music  richness,  graceful  develop- 
ments, the  different  rhythms  of  which  seemed  to 
breathe  of  human  gayety.     Her  motifs  had  the  bril- 
liancy of  the  roulades  of  a  cantatrice  striving  to 
express  love,   and  the    notes  rose  buoyantly  like 
those  of  a  bird  by  the  side  of  its  mate.     Then,  at 
moments,  she  darted  back  into  the  past,  to  sport 
there  or  to  weep  there  alternately.     Her  changing 
moods  had  something  disordered  about  them,  like 
the  agitation  of  a  woman  happy  at  the  return  of  her 
lover.     Then,  after  the  flexible  fugues  of  delirium 
and  the  marvelous  effects  of  this  fantastic  recogni- 
tion, the  soul  that  spoke  thus  returned  upon  itself. 
The  musician,  passing  from  the  major  to  the  minor 
key,  revealed  to  her  auditor  the  story  of  her  present 
situation.     Suddenly,  unexpectedly,  she  recounted 
to  him  her  long  melancholy  and  depicted  for  him 
her  lingering  moral   malady.      She  had  abolished 
every   day   a   feeling,    cut   off   every    night  some 
thought,    reduced   gradually   her    heart    to    ashes. 
After  soft  modulations  the  music  took  on  slowly, 
tint  by  tint,  the  hue  of  profound  sadness.    Soon  the 
echoes  poured  forth  in  torrents  the  well-springs  of 
grief.     Then,  all  at  once,  the  higher  notes  struck  a 

■!      concert  of  angelic  voices,  as  if  to  announce  to  her 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE  LANGEAIS  211 

lost  lover,  lost  but  not  forgotten,  that  the  reunion  of  \ 
two  souls  could  only  take  place  in  heaven :  hope  \ 
most  precious !     Then  came  the  Amen.     There,  no    \ 
longer  any  joy  nor  any  tears,  neither  melancholy 
nor  regrets.     The  Amen  was  a  return  to  God;  this 
last  chord  was  grave,  solemn,  terrible.     The  musi- / 
cian  revealed  the  veil  which  covered  the  nun,  and 
after  the  last  thunder  of  the  basses  which  made  the 
hearers  tremble  even  to  their  hair  she  seemed  to 
sink  again  into  that  tomb  from  which  she  had  for  a 
moment  issued.     When  the  echoes  had  by  degrees 
ceased   their   long    vibration    it  seemed   that  the 
church,  until  then  luminous,  had  again  been  plunged 
into  profound  obscurity. 

The  general  had  been  completely  carried  away  by 
the  course  of  this  powerful  genius,  and  had  followed 
her  through  all  the  regions  which  she  had  traversed. 
He  comprehended  in  their  full  meaning  all  the 
images  that  crowded  that  burning  symphony,  and 
for  him  these  chords  echoed  far.  For  him,  as  for  the 
sister,  this  poem  was  the  future,  the  present,  and 
the  past.  Music,  even  that  of  the  theatre,  is  it  not 
for  tender  and  poetic  souls,  for  wounded  and  suffer- 
ing hearts,  a  text  which  they  interpret  at  the  will 
of  their  memories?  If  it  requires  the  heart  of  a 
poet  to  make  a  musician,  are  not  poetry  and  love 
required  to  hear,  to  comprehend,  the  great  works 
of  music?  Religion,  love,  and  music,  are  they  not  \ 
the  triple  expression  of  the  same  fact,  the  need  of 
expansion  which  agitates  every  noble  soul  ?  these 
three  forms  of  poetry  all  lead  to  God,  who  alone  can 


f 


212  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

unravel  all  terrestrial  emotions.  Thus  this  holy 
human  trinity  participates  in  the  infinite  grandeurs 
of  God,  whom  we  never  figure  to  ourselves  without 
surrounding  Him  by  the  fires  of  love,  the  golden 
timbrels  of  music,  of  light  and  of  harmony.  Is  it 
not  the  principle  and  the  end  of  all  our  works  ? 

The  French  general  divined  that  in  this  desert, 
on  this  rock  surrounded  by  the  sea,  the  nun  had 
taken  possession  of  music  to  pour  into  it  the  excess 
of  passion  that  consumed  her.     Was  it  a  homage 
made  to  God  of  her  love?  was  it  the  triumph  of 
love  over  God?  questions  difficult  to  answer.     But, 
certainly,  the  general  could  not  doubt  that  he  had 
found  in  this  heart  dead  to  the  world,  a  passion  as 
burning  as  his  own.     When  vespers  were  ended, 
he  returned  to  the  alcade's  house,  where  he  lodged. 
Giving  himself  over  at  first  to  the  thousand  delights 
lavished  by  a  satisfaction  long  waited  for,  painfully 
sought,  he  could  see  nothing  beyond.     He  was  still 
loved.     Solitude  had  nourished  love  in  that  heart, 
as  much  as  love  had  grown  in  his  own  by  the  bar- 
riers, successively  surmounted,  which  this  woman 
had  placed  between  herself  and  him.     This  expan- 
sion of  the  soul  had  its  natural  duration.     Then 
came  the  desire  to  see  this  woman  again,  to  reclaim 
her  from  God,   to  ravish  her  from   Him, — a  bold 
project,  welcome  to  this  bold  man.     After  the  repast 
he  retired  to  his  bed  to  escape  questions,  to  be 
alone,  to  be  able  to  think  without  interruption,  and 
he   remained   plunged    in   the    deepest   meditation 
until  the  morning  broke.     He  only  rose  to  go  to 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  21 3 

Mass.  He  went  to  the  church,  placed  himself  close 
to  the  screen;  his  brow  touched  the  curtain;  he 
longed  to  tear  it  away,  but  he  was  not  alone, — his 
host  had  accompanied  him  through  politeness  and 
the  least  imprudence  might  compromise  the  future 
of  his  passion  and  ruin  his  new  hopes.  The  sound 
of  the  organ  again  filled  the  church  but  not  under 
the  touch  of  the  same  hand;  the  musician  of  the 
last  two  days  was  absent  from  the  keyboard.  All 
was  chill  and  pale  to  the  general.  Was  his  mis- 
tress overcome  by  the  same  emotions  under  which 
had  well  nigh  succumbed  his  own  vigorous  man's 
heart.?  Had  she  so  truly  shared,  comprehended, 
a  faithful  and  eager  love  that  she  now  lay  dying  on 
her  bed  in  her  cell  ?  At  the  moment  when  a  thous- 
and thoughts  like  these  were  rising  in  the  French- 
man's mind  he  heard  beside  him  the  voice  of  the 
beloved,  he  recognized  the  clearness  of  its  tones. 
This  voice,  slightly  modified  by  a  tremor  which 
gave  it  all  the  grace  lent  to  young  girls  by  their 
chaste  timidity,  detached  itself  from  the  volume  of 
song  of  the  chant  like  that  of  a  prima  donna  over 
the  harmonies  of  a  finale.  It  gave  to  the  soul  an 
impression  like  that  produced  on  the  eyes  by  a 
fillet  of  silver  or  of  gold  threading  a  dark  frieze.  It 
was  indeed  she!  Still  Parisian,  she  had  not  lost 
her  gracious  charm  though  she  had  quitted  the 
adornments  of  the  world  for  the  headband  and  the 
coarse  serge  of  a  Carmelite.  After  having  revealed 
her  love  the  night  before  in  the  midst  of  the  praises 
addressed  to  the  Lord  she  now  seemed  to  say  to  her 


214  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 


/ 


V 


lover:  "Yes  it  is  I,  I  am  here,  I  love  forever;  yet  I 
am  sheltered  from  love.  Thou  wilt  hear  me,  my 
soul  shall  enfold  thee,  and  I  shall  remain  beneath 
the  brown  shroud  of  this  choir  from  which  no  power 
can  tear  me.     Thou  canst  not  see  me." 

"It  is  indeed  she!"  said  the  general  to  himself, 
lifting  his  head  from  his  hands  on  which  he  had 
been  leaning;  for  he  had  not  been  able  at  first  to 
sustain  the  crushing  emotion  which  rose  like  a 
whirlwind  in  his  heart  when  that  well-known  voice 
vibrated  under  the  arches,  to  the  accompaniment  of 
the  murmur  of  the  waves. 

The  storm  raged  without  and  calm  was  within 
the  sanctuary.  This  voice,  so  rich,  continued  to 
display  all  its  charming  cajoleries,  it  fell  like  balm 
upon  the  parched  heart  of  this  lover,  it  flowered  in 
the  air  about  him,  which  he  well  might  desire  to 
breathe  so  as  to  receive  the  emanations  of  a  soul 
exhaled  with  love  in  the  words  of  the  prayer.  The 
alcade  came  to  rejoin  his  guest,  he  found  him  in 
tears  at  the  elevation  of  the  Host,  which  was  chanted 
by  the  nun,  and  carried  him  away  to  his  house. 
Surprised  to  find  such  devotion  in  a  French  soldier, 
the  alcade  invited  the  confessor  of  the  convent  to 
join  them  at  supper,  and  informed  the  general,  to 
whom  no  news  had  ever  given  such  pleasure.  Dur- 
ing the  supper,  the  confessor  was  the  object  of  such 
respectful  attention  on  the  part  of  the  Frenchman 
that  the  Spaniards  were  confirmed  in  the  high  opin- 
ion they  had  formed  of  his  piety.  He  inquired  with 
great  interest  the  number  of  the  nuns,   asked  for 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE  LANGEAIS  215 

details  about  the  revenues  of  the  convent  and  its 
wealth,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  wished  politely 
to  entertain  the  good  old  priest  with  the  matters 
in  which  he  was  most  interested.  Then  he  in- 
quired about  the  life  led  by  these  holy  sisters. 
Could  they  go  out?     Could  they  be  seen ? 

"Senor, "  said  the  venerable  priest,  "the  rule  is 
severe.  If  the  permission  of  our  Holy  Father  must 
be  obtained  before  a  woman  can  enter  a  house  of 
Saint-Bruno,  here  is  the  same  rigor.  It  is  impossi- 
ble for  any  man  to  enter  a  convent  of  the  Bare-footed 
Carmelites  unless  he  is  a  priest  and  delegated  by 
the  Archbishop  for  duty  in  the  house.  No  nun  can 
go  out  It  is  true,  however,  that  THE  GREAT  SAINT 
— Mother  Therese — did  frequently  leave  her  cell. 
The  Visitor,  or  the  Mothers  Superior,  can  alone, 
with  the  authorization  of  the  Archbishop,  permit  a 
nun  to  see  strangers,  especially  in  case  of  ill- 
ness. Now,  ours  is  one  of  the  chief  Houses  of 
the  Order  and  we  have  consequently  a  Mother 
Superior  residing  in  the  convent.  We  have  among 
other  foreigners  a  French  woman,  Sister  Therese, 
the  one  who  directs  the  music  of  the  chapel." 

"Ah!"  said  the  general,  feigning  surprise.  "She 
must  have  been  gratified  by  the  triumph  of  the 
Arms  of  the  House  of  Bourbon?" 

"I  told  them  the  object  of  the  Mass,  they  are 
always  a  little  curious." 

"Perhaps  Sister  Therese  has  some  interest  in 
France;  she  might  perhaps  be  glad  to  receive  some 
news  from  there,  or  to  ask  some  questions?" 


\ 


2l6  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

"I  think  not  or  she  would  have  spoken  to  me 
about  it" 

"As  a  compatriot,"  said  the  general,  "  I  should 
be  curious  to  see  her. — If  that  were  possible,  if  the 
Mother  Superior  would  consent,  if — " 

"At  the  grating,  even  in  presence  of  the  reverend 
mother,  an  interview  would  be  impossible  for  any- 
one, no  matter  whom;  but  in  favor  of  a  liberator  of 
the  Catholic  throne  and  of  our  holy  religion,  in 
spite  of  the  strictness  of  our  Mother,  the  rule  might 
perhaps  be  relaxed  a  moment,"  said  the  confessor, 
slightly  winking  his  eyes.    "I  will  speak  about  it" 

"How  old  is  Sister  Ther^se?"  asked  the  lover, 
who  dared  not  question  the  priest  about  the  beauty 
of  the  nun. 

"She  is  no  longer  of  any  age,"  replied  the  good 
old  man  with  a  simplicity  which  made  the  general 
shudder. 


1 


* 

The  next  morning,  before  the  siesta,  the  confessor 
came  to  announce  to  the  Frenchman  that  Sister 
Therese  and  the  Mother  Superior  consented  to 
receive  him  at  the  grating  of  the  convent  parlor 
before  the  hour  of  Vespers.  After  the  siesta,  during 
which  the  general  had  whiled  away  the  time  by 
walking  around  the  port  in  the  noonday  heat,  the 
priest  came  to  seek  him  and  introduced  him  into 
the  convent;  he  guided  him  under  a  gallery  which 
ran  the  length  of  the  cemetery  and  in  which  foun- 
tains, several  green  trees  and  numerous  arcades  main- 
tained a  cooling  freshness  in  harmony  with  the 
silence  of  the  place.  When  they  reached  the  end 
of  this  long  gallery  the  priest  caused  his  companion 
to  enter  a  parlor  divided  in  the  middle  by  a  grating 
covered  with  a  brown  curtain.  On  the  side,  to  a 
degree  public,  in  which  the  confessor  left  the  gen- 
eral, there  was  a  wooden  bench  along  one  side  of 
the  wall ;  some  chairs,  also  of  wood,  were  near  the 
grating.  The  ceiling  was  crossed  by  projecting 
beams  of  evergreen  oak  without  ornament  The 
daylight  only  entered  this  apartment  through  two 
windows  in  the  division  set  apart  for  the  nuns,  so 
that  this  feeble  light,  mostly  absorbed  by  the  brown 
tones  of  the  woodwork,  scarcely  sufficed  to  reveal 
the  great  black  Christ,  the  portrait  of  Saint  Therese 
and  a  picture  of  the  Virgin  which  hung  on  the  gray 

(217) 


2l8  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

panels  of  the  wall.  The  feelings  of  the  general 
were  subdued,  in  spite  of  their  violence,  to  a  tone  of 
melancholy.  He  became  calm  in  this  domestic 
calm.  Something  mighty  as  the  grave  seized  him 
beneath  these  chilling  rafters.  Was  this  not  its 
eternal  silence,  its  profound  peace,  its  suggestions 

\  of  the  infinite.?  Then  the  stillness  and  the  fixed 
thought  of  the  cloister,  this  thought  which  fills  the 
air,  in  the  half-light,  in  all  things,  and  which, 
nowhere  traced,  is  yet  magnified  by  the  imagina- 
tion, this  great  word,  Peace  in  the  Lord,  enters 
there  with  living  power  into  the  least  religious  soul. 
Convents  of  men  are  not  easily  conceivable; 
man  seems  feeble  and  unworthy  in  them,— he  is 
■  born  to  act,  to  fulfil  a  life  of  toil,  which  he  evades 
in  his  cell.  But  in  a  monastery  of  women,  what 
virile  strength  and  yet  what  touching  weakness! 
A  man  may  be  pushed  by  a  thousand  sentiments 
into  the  depths  of  an  abbey,  he  flings  himself  into 
them  as  from  a  precipice;  but  a  woman  enters  there 
drawn  only  by  one  sentiment, — she  does  not  unsex 
herself,  she  becomes  the  bride  of  God.  You  may 
say  to  the   man,   "Why  did  you   not  struggle.?" 

-,,,Butthe  seclusion  of  the  woman,  is  it  not  always 
a  sublime  struggle.?  The  general  found  this  silent 
parlor  and  this  convent  lost  in  the  midst  of  the  sea 
full  of  memories  of  Him.  Love  seldom  reaches  up- 
ward to  solemnity;  but  love  still  faithful  in  the 
bosom  of  God,  is  there  not  something  solemn  in  it, 
and  more  than  a  man  has  the  right  to  hope  for  in 
this  nineteenth  century,  and  with  our  manners  and 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  219 

customs?  The  general's  soul  was  one  that  might 
readily  be  impressed  by  the  infinite  grandeurs  of 
this  situation,  he  was  one  of  those  sufficiently 
elevated  to  forget  political  interests,  worldly  honors, 
Spain,  the  world  of  Paris,  and  rise  to  the  heights  of 
this  sublime  termination.  Moreover,  what  could 
be  more  truly  tragic?  How  many  emotions  might 
be  found  in  the  situation  of  these  two  lovers, 
reunited  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  sea,  on  a  granite 
ledge,  yet  separated  by  an  idea,  by  an  impassable 
barrier !  Look  at  this  man  saying  to  himself,  "Can 
I  triumph  over  God  in  that  heart?"  A  slight 
sound  made  this  man  quiver,  the  brown  curtain 
was  drawn  back;  then  he  saw  in  the  half-light  a 
woman  standing  whose  face  was  hidden  from  him 
by  a  prolongation  of  the  veil  folded  on  her  head; 
according  to  the  rule  of  the  order  she  was  clothed 
in  that  garb,  the  color  of  which  has  become  pro- 
verbial. The  general  could  not  see  the  naked  feet  of 
the  nun,  which  would  have  revealed  to  him  a 
frightful  emaciation;  yet  through  the  numerous 
Tolds  of  the  coarse  robe  which  covered  and  did  not 
adorn  this  woman  he  divined  that  tears,  prayer, 
passion,  solitude,  had  already  wasted  her  away. 

The  cold  hand  of  a  woman,  doubtless  that  of  the 
Mother  Superior,  held  back  the  curtain;  and  the 
genera],  examining  the  necessary  witness  of  this 
interview,  encountered  the  black  and  thoughtful 
eyes  of  an  old  nun,  almost  a  centenarian,  a  clear 
and  youthful  look,  which  belied  the  numberless 
wrinkles  which  furrowed  her  pale  face. 


220  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 


<«] 


'Madame  la  Duchesse, "  he  said  in  a  voice 
shaken  by  emotion  to  the  nun  who  bowed  her  head, 
"Does  your  companion  understand  French?" 

"There  is  no  duchesse  here,"  replied  the  nun. 
"You  are  in  presence  of  Sister  Therese.  The 
woman  whom  you  call  my  companion  is  my  mother 
in  God,  my  superior  here  below." 

These  words,  so  humbly  uttered  by  the  voice 
that  once  harmonized  with  the  luxury  and  elegance 
in  which  this  woman  had  lived,  queen  of  the  world 
of  Paris,  by  lips  whose  language  had  formerly  been 
so  gay,  so  mocking,  struck  the  general  as  if  with 
lightning. 

"My  holy  Mother  speaks  only  Latin  and  Spanish," 
she  added. 

"I  understand  neither.  Dear  Antoinette,  make 
my  excuses  to  her. " 

As  she  heard  her  name  softly  uttered  by  a  man 
once  so  hard  to  her,  the  nun  was  shaken  by  an 
inward  emotion  which  betrayed  itself  by  the 
slight  trembling  of  her  veil  on  which  the  light  fell 
directly. 

"My  brother,"  she  said  passing  her  sleeve 
beneath  her  veil,  perhaps  to  wipe  her  eyes,  "my 
name  is  Sister  Therese." 

Then  she  turned  to  the  mother  and  said  to  her  in 
Spanish  these  words  which  the  general  plainly 
heard ;  he  knew  enough  of  the  language  to  under- 
stand them,  perhaps  also  to  speak  them : 

"My  dear  Mother,  this  cavalier  presents  his 
respects  to  you  and  begs  you  to  excuse  him  for  not 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  221 

laying  them  himself  at  your  feet;  but  he  knows 
neither  of  the  two  languages  which  you  speak — " 

The  old  woman  bowed  her  head  slowly,  her  coun- 
tenance took  an  expression  of  angelic  softness, 
heightened  nevertheless  by  the  consciousness  of 
her  power  and  her  dignity. 

"You  know  this  cavalier?"  she  asked  with  a 
penetrating  glance  at  the  sister. 

"Yes,  my  Mother." 

"Retire  to  your  cell,  my  daughter!"  said  the 
Mother  Superior  in  a  tone  of  authority. 

The  general  hastily  withdrew  behind  the  curtain, 
so  that  his  face  might  not  reveal  the  terrible  emo- 
tion which  agitated  him ;  and  in  the  shadow  he 
seemed  to  see  still  the  piercing  eyes  of  the  Mother 
Superior.  This  woman,  arbiter  of  the  frail  and 
fleeting  joy  he  had  won  at  such  a  cost,  made  him 
afraid  and  he  trembled,  he  whom  a  triple  range  of 
cannon  had  never  terrified.  The  duchess  walked 
towards  the  door,  but  she  turned : 

"My  Mother,"  she  said  in  a  voice  of  horrible 
calmness,  "this  Frenchman  is  one  of  my  brothers." 

"Remain  then,  my  daughter,"  replied  the  old 
woman  after  a  pause. 

This  admirable  Jesuitism  revealed  so  much  love 
and  such  regret  that  a  man  of  a  weaker  organiza- 
tion than  the  general  would  have  given  way  in 
experiencing  so  lively  a  pleasure  in  the  midst  of  an 
immense  peril,  for  him  so  novel.  Of  what  value 
were  words,  looks,  gestures,  in  a  scene  in  which 
love  must  be  hidden   from  the  eyes  of  the  lynx, 


222  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

the  claws  of  a  tiger !  The  Sister  Therese  came 
back. 

"You  see,  my  brother,  what  I  dared  to  do  that  I 
might  speak  to  you,  for  one  moment,  of  your  salva- 
tion, and  of  the  prayers  which  my  soul  addresses 
to  heaven  every  day  for  you.  1  have  committed  a 
mortal  sin.  I  have  lied.  How  many  days  of  peni- 
tence to  efface  that  lie!  but  it  will  be  to  suffer  for 
you.  You  do  not  know,  my  brother,  what  happiness 
it  is  to  love  in  heaven,  to  be  able  to  avow  our  feel- 
ings now  that  religion  has  purified  them,  has  trans- 
ported them  into  the  highest  regions,  and  that  it  is 
permitted  us  to  no  longer  consider  anything  but  the 
soul.  If  the  doctrines,  if  the  spirt  of  the  saint  to 
whom  we  owe  this  refuge  had  not  lifted  me  far 
above  terrestrial  miseries  to  a  sphere,  far  indeed 
from  that  where  she  is,  but  certainly  above  the 
world,  I  could  not  have  seen  you.  But  I  can  see 
you,  hear  you,  and  remain  calm — " 

"Antoinette,"  cried  the  general,  interrupting  her 
at  these  words,  "let  me  see  you,  you  whom  1  love 
now  passionately,  to  distraction,  as  you  once  wished 
me  to  love  you." 

"Do  not  call  me  Antoinette,  I  implore  you.  The 
memories  of  the  past  do  me  harm.  See  in  me  only 
Sister  Therese,  a  creature  trusting  to  the  divine 
pity.  And — "  she  added  after  a  pause,  "calm  your- 
self, my  brother.  Our  Mother  would  separate  us 
pitilessly  if  your  face  betrayed  earthly  passions,  or 
if  your  eyes  shed  tears." 

The   general    bowed    his    head   as    if  to   collect 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  223 

himself.  When  he  again  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  grat- 
ing he  saw  between  two  bars  the  pale,  emaciated,  yet 
still  ardent  face  of  the  nun.  Her  complexion,  where 
once  had  bloomed  all  the  loveliness  of  youth,  where 
once  there  shone  the  happy  contrast  of  a  creamy 
whiteness  with  the  color  of  the  rose  of  Bengal,  had 
now  taken  the  warm  translucent  tone  of  a  porcelain 
cup  through  which  a  feeble  light  shines  faintly.  The 
beautiful  hair  of  which  this  woman  was  once  so 
proud  had  been  shorn.  A  band  bound  her  forehead 
and  enveloped  her  face.  Her  eyes  surrounded  with 
dark  circles,  due  to  the  austerities  of  her  life, 
launched,  at  moments,  feverish  rays  and  their 
habitual  calm  was  but  a  veil.  In  a  word,  of  this 
woman  only  the  soul  remained. 

"Ah!  you  will  leave  this  tomb,  you  who  have 
become  my  life!  You  belonged  to  me,  and  you 
were  not  free  to  give  yourself,  even  to  God.  Did 
you  not  promise  me  to  sacrifice  all  to  the  least  of 
my  commands?  Now,  perhaps,  you  will  think  me 
worthy  of  this  promise  when  you  know  what  I  have 
done  for  you.  I  have  sought  you  through  the  whole 
world.  For  five  years  you  have  been  the  thought 
of  every  instant,  the  occupation  of  my  life.  My 
friends,  very  powerful  friends  as  you  know,  have 
helped  me  with  all  their  ability  to  search  the  con- 
vents of  France,  of  Italy,  of  Spain,  of  Sicily,  of 
America.  My  love  was  rekindled  with  every  fruit- 
less search;  I  have  made  many  a  long  journey  on  a 
false  hope,  1  have  expended  my  life  and  the  strong- 
est beatings  of  my  heart  around  the  black  walls  of 


f 


224  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

cloisters.  I  do  not  speak  to  you  of  a  fidelity  unlim- 
ited, what  is  it?  nothing  in  comparison  with  the 
infinite  desires  of  my  love.  If  in  other  days  your 
remorse  was  real  you  cannot  now  hesitate  to  follow 
me." 

"You  forget  that  I  am  not  free." 

"The  duke  is  dead,"  he  said  hastily. 

Sister  Therese  reddened. 

"May  Heaven  receive  him !  "  she  said  with  quick 
emotion;  "he  was  generous  to  me.  But  I  was  not 
speaking  of  those  ties,  one  of  my  faults  was  my  will- 
ingness to  break  them  all  without  scruple  for  you." 

"You  speak  of  your  vows,"  cried  the  general, 
frowning.  "1  did  not  believe  that  anything  would 
weigh  in  your  heart  against  your  love.  But  do  not 
doubt,  Antoinette,  1  will  obtain  from  the  Holy 
Father  a  brief  which  will  cancel  your  vows.  I 
will  surely  go  to  Rome,  I  will  petition  every  earthly 
power;  and  if  God  could  descend,  I — " 

"Do  not  blaspheme." 

"Do  not  fear  how  God  would  see  it!  Ah!  1  would 
much  more  gladly  know  that  you  would  escape  from 
these  walls  for  me;  that  this  very  night  you  would 
throw  yourself  into  some  bark,  at  the  foot  of  these 
rocks.  We  would  depart  to  be  happy  anywhere,  to 
the  end  of  the  world!  And  with  me,  you  would 
come  back  to  life,  to  health  in  the  shelter  of  love." 

"Do  not  say  such  things,"  returned  Sister  Therese, 
"you  do  not  know  what  you  have  become  to  me. 
I  love  you  much  better  than  1  have  ever  loved  you. 
I  pray  to  God  for  you  daily,  and  I  see  you  no  longer 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  225 

with  the  eyes  of  my  body.  If  you  but  knew, 
Armand,  the  joy  of  being  able  without  shame  to 
deliver  yourself  to  a  pure  affection  which  God  pro- 
tects !  You  do  not  know  how  happy  I  am  to  call 
down  the  blessings  of  Heaven  upon  your  head.  I 
never  pray  for  myself:  God  will  do  with  me  accord- 
ing to  His  will.  But  you,  I  would  wish  at  the  price 
of  my  eternity  to  have  some  assurance  that  you  are 
happy  in  this  world,  and  that  you  will  be  happy  in 
the  other,  throughout  the  ages.  My  life  eternal  is 
all  that  misfortune  has  left  me  to  offer  you.  Now, 
I  have  grown  old  in  tears,  I  am  no  longer  either 
young  or  beautiful ;  moreover,  you  would  despise  a 
nun  who  again  became  a  woman,  whom  no  senti- 
ment, not  even  maternal  love,  could  absolve. — 
What  could  you  say  to  me  that  would  outweigh  the 
unnumbered  reflections  which  have  accumulated  in 
my  heart  during  five  years,  and  which  have 
changed  it,  hollowed  it,  withered  it.''  I  should  have 
given  it  less  sorrowfully  to  God!  " 

"What  I  would  say  to  you,  dear  Antoinette!  I 
would  say  to  you  that  I  love  you,  that  affection, 
love,  true  love,  the  happiness  of  living  in  a  heart 
wholly  one's  own,  and  without  one  reservation,  is  so 
rare  and  so  difficult  to  find  that  I  have  doubted  you, 
that  I  have  put  you  to  cruel  tests ;  but  to-day  I  love 
you  with  all  the  powers  of  my  soul, — if  you  will 
follow  me  into  some  retreat  I  will  no  longer  listen 
to  any  other  voice  than  yours,  I  will  no  longer  look 
on  any  other  face  than  yours — " 

"Silence,  Armand !    You  are  shortening  the  single 
15 


226  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

moment  in  which  we  are  permitted  to   see  each 
other  here  below." 

"Antoinette,  will  you  follow  me?" 

"But  I  never  leave  you.  I  live  in  your  heart, 
but  otherwise  than  by  the  interest  of  worldly  pleas- 
ure, of  vanity,  of  selfish  joy;  I  live  here  for  you, 
pale  and  faded,  in  the  bosom  of  God!  If  He  is  just 
you  will  be  happy — " 

"Phrases  all!  But  if  I  wish  to  have  you  pale 
and  faded  ?  But  if  1  cannot  be  happy  without  pos- 
sessing you?  You  will  still  be  thinking  of  duties 
in  the  presence  of  your  lover  ?  He  is  never,  then, 
above  all  things  else  in  your  heart?  In  other  days 
you  preferred  to  him  society,  yourself,  I  know  not 
what;  now  it  is  God,  it  is  my  salvation.  In  Sister 
Therese  I  recognize  still  the  duchess,  ignorant  of 
the  joys  of  love,  and  still  unfeeling  beneath  a  pre- 
tence of  tenderness.  You  do  not  love  me,  you  have 
never  loved — " 
.    "Ah!  my  brother — " 

"You  will  not  leave  this  tomb;  you  love  my  soul, 
you  say?  Well  then,  you  shall  lose  forever  this 
soul,  I  will  kill  myself — " 

"My  Mother,"  cried  Sister  Therese  in  Spanish, 
"1  have  lied  to  you,  this  man  is  my  lover!  " 

Immediately  the  curtain  fell.  The  general,  stand- 
ing stupefied,  scarcely  heard  the  interior  doors  clos- 
ing violently. 

"Ah!  she  loves  me  still!"  he  cried,  comprehend- 
ing all  that  there  was  of  sublimity  in  the  cry  of  the 
nun.     "She  shall  be  carried  away  from  here — " 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  227 

He  left  the  island  immediately,  returned  to  head- 
quarters, reported  himself  still  ill,  asked  for  a 
leave  of  absence  and  returned  immediately  to  France. 

The  following  adventure  will  explain  the  situa- 
tion in  which  we  found  the  two  persons  of  this  his- 
tory. 


* 

What  is  called  in  France  the  Faubourg  Saint-Ger- 
main is  not  a  quarter  of  Paris,  nor  a  sect,  nor  an 
institution,  nor  indeed  anything  that  can  be  defi- 
nitely expressed.  The  Place  Royale,  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Honore,  the  Chaussee-d'Antin,  all  contain 
mansions  in  which  may  be  found  the  atmosphere 
of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain.  Thus  to  begin 
with,  all  the  Faubourg  is  not  in  the  Faubourg. 
Persons  born  far  from  its  influence  may  feel  it  and 
affiliate  with  this  world,  whilst  others  born  in  its 
midst  may  be  forever  banished  from  it.  The  man- 
ners, the  forms  of  speech,  in  a  word  the  traditions, 
of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  have  been  to  Paris 
for  the  last  forty  years  what  the  Court  was  to  it  in 
former  days,  what  the  Hotel  Saint-Paul  was  in  the 
fourteenth  century,  the  Louvre  in  the  fifteenth,  the 
Palais,  the  Hotel  Rambouillet,  the  Place  Royale,  in 
the  sixteenth,  and,  finally,  Versailles  in  the  seven- 
teenth and  eighteenth  centuries.  Through  all 
phases  of  history  the  Paris  of  the  upper  class  and 
of  the  nobility  has  had  its  centre,  just  as  the  Paris 
of  the  people  will  always  have  its  own.  This 
recurring  singularity  offers  ample  matter  for  reflec- 
tion to  those  who  wish  to  observe  or  to  paint  the 
different  social  strata ;  and  perhaps  its  causes  should 
be  investigated,  not  only  to  explain  the  character  of 
this  story  but  also  to  serve  important  interests, — 

(229) 


230  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

more  important  to  the  future  than  to  the  present,  if 
the  teachings  of  experience  were  not  always  as 
profitless  for  political  parties  as  for  youth.  The 
great  seigneurs  and  the  men  of  wealth,  who  always 
imitate  the  great  seigneurs,  have  at  all  epochs  with- 
drawn their  houses  from  much  frequented  places. 
If  the  Due  d'Uzes  built  for  himself,  during  the  reign 
of  Louis  XIV.,  the  handsome  hotel  at  the  gate  of 
which  he  placed  the  fountain  of  Rue  Montmartre,  a 
beneficent  act  which  rendered  him,  in  addition  to  his 
virtues,  an  object  of  such  popular  veneration  that  all 
the  people  of  the  quarter  followed  him  to  his  grave, 
it  was  because  this  quarter  of  Paris  was  then  de- 
serted. But  no  sooner  were  the  fortifications 
leveled,  the  marshes  beyond  the  boulevards  cov- 
ered with  houses,  than  the  d'Uzes  family  aban- 
doned their  fine  hotel  which  is  occupied  in  our  days 
by  a  banker.  Then  the  nobility,  compromised  by 
the  surrounding  shops,  abandoned  the  Place  Royale, 
the  neighborhood  of  the  Parisian  centre,  and  crossed 
the  river  in  order  to  be  able  to  breathe  at  its  ease 
in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  where  palaces  had 
already  arisen  around  the  hotel  built  by  Louis 
XIV.  for  the  Due  du  Maine,  the  Benjamin  of  his 
legitimatized  sons.  For  those  accustomed  to  the 
splendors  of  life  is  there,  in  fact,  anything  more 
ignoble  than  the  tumult,  the  mud,  the  cries,  the 
offensive  smells,  the  narrowness  of  populous  streets  ? 
Are  not  the  habits  of  a  shop-keeping  or  manu- 
facturing quarter  in  constant  discord  with  the 
habits  of  the  great  world?     Commerce   and  labor 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  23 1 

are  going  to  bed  just  when  aristocracy  is  going  to 
dine;  the  one  is  in  noisy  activity  while  the  other 
is  in  need  of  repose;  their  computations  are  never 
on  the  same  basis,  one  is  the  receipt  and  the  other 
the  expenditure.  Thus  arise  manners  and  customs 
diametrically  opposed.  This  observation  has  in  it 
nothing  of  disdain.  An  aristocracy  is  in  some  sort 
the  thought  of  a  society,  as  the  bourgeoisie  and  the 
proletariat  are  its  organism  and  its  action.  From 
this  comes  the  need  of  different  seats  and  localities 
for  these  differing  forces;  and  from  their  antago- 
nism grows  an  apparent  antipathy  which  produces 
the  diversity  of  movements  all  operating,  however, 
towards  a  common  end.  These  social  discords 
result  so  logically  from  every  constitutional  code 
that  the  liberal,  the  most  disposed  to  complain  of  it 
— as  of  an  attack  upon  the  sublime  ideas  under 
which  the  ambitious  of  the  lower  classes  hide  their 
designs — would  find  it  prodigiously  absurd  if  Mon- 
sieur le  Prince  Montmorency  lived  in  Rue  Saint- 
Martin,  on  the  corner  of  the  street  which  bears  his 
name,  or  if  Monsieur  le  Due  de  Fitz- James,  descend- 
ant of  the  royal  Scottish  race,  had  his  hotel  in  Rue 
Marie-Stuart  at  the  corner  of  Rue  Montorgueil. 
Sint  tit  sunt,  aut  non  sint,  —this  fine  pontifical 
saying  might  serve  as  a  motto  for  the  great  world 
of  every  nation.  This  fact,  obvious  to  every  epoch 
and  accepted  always  by  the  people,  bears  within  it 
reasons  of  State;  it  is  at  once  an  effect  and  a  cause, 
a  principle  and  a  law.  The  masses  have  a  sound 
common   sense   which   only   deserts  them    at  the 


232  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

moment  when  the  evil-disposed  excite  their  passions. 
This  common  sense  rests  on  the  essential  truths  of 
a  common  order,  as  true  at  Moscow  as  in  London,  as 
true  in  Geneva  as  in  Calcutta.  Everywhere, 
whenever  you  assemble  families  of  unequal  for- 
tunes within  a  given  space  you  will  see  them  divid- 
ing into  superior  circles,  those  of  patricians,  of  the 
first,  second,  and  third  classes  of  society.  Equality 
may  perhaps  be  a  right,  but  no  human  power  can 
convert  it  into  difact.  It  would  be  well  for  the  hap- 
piness of  France  if  this  truth  could  be  popularized. 
The  least  intelligent  classes  may  still  feel  the  ben- 
efits of  political  harmony.  This  harmony  is  the 
poetry  of  order,  and  the  people  are  conscious  of  a 
lively  need  of  order.  The  co-operation  of  things 
among  themselves, — unity,  to  express  all  in  one 
word, — is  it  not  the  simplest  expression  of  the  prin- 
ciple of  order?  Architecture,  music,  poetry,  all 
rest  in  France,  more  than  in  any  other  country, 
upon  this  principle  which  moreover  is  written  in 
the  depths  of  its  clear  and  pure  language, — and 
language  will  always  be  the  most  infallible  formula 
of  a  nation.  Thus  you  may  see  the  people  here 
adopting  the  most  poetical  airs,  the  best  modulated; 
attaching  themselves  to  the  most  simple  ideas; 
choosing  incisive  formula  which  are  most  closely 
packed  with  thought  France  is  the  only  country 
in  which  a  little  phrase  may  bring  about  a  great 
revolution.  The  masses  here  have  never  revolted 
except  to  endeavor  to  bring  into  unison  men,  things, 
and  principles.     Thus  no  other  nation  has  ever  so 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  233 

well  understood  the  idea  of  unity  which  should 
exist  in  the  aristocratic  life,  perhaps  because  no 
other  has  so  well  comprehended  political  necessi- 
ties; history  has  never  found  it  lagging  behind. 
France  is  often  deceived,  but  as  a  woman  is 
deceived, — by  generous  ideas,  by  ardent  sentiments 
whose  extent  at  first  escapes  calculation. 

Thus  to  begin  with,  for  its  first  characteristic 
trait  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  has  the  splendor 
of  its  mansions,  its  large  gardens,  their  stillness 
formerly  in  keeping  with  the  magnificence  of  its 
territorial  fortunes.  Is  not  this  space  intervening 
between  a  class  and  the  whole  capital  a  material 
expression  of  the  moral  distance  which  should  sep- 
arate them  ?  In  all  created  things  the  head  has  its 
indicated  place.  If,  by  chance,  a  nation  causes  its 
head  to  fall  at  its  feet  it  perceives,  sooner  or  later, 
that  it  has  committed  suicide.  As  the  nations  do 
not  wish  to  die,  they,  therefore,  apply  themselves  to 
the  reconstruction  of  a  head.  When  a  nation  has  no 
longer  the  strength  to  do  this,  it  perishes,  as  per- 
ished Rome,  Venice  and  so  many  others.  The  dis- 
tinction introduced  by  the  difference  in  habits  and 
manners  between  the  other  spheres  of  social  activity 
and  the  superior  sphere  implies,  necessarily,  an 
actual  and  commanding  worth  at  the  aristocratic 
summits.  Whenever  in  any  state,  under  any  form 
which  the  government  may  assume,  the  patricians 
fail  in  their  conditions  of  complete  superiority, 
they  become  powerless,  and  the  people  soon  over- 
throw them.     The  people  desire  always  to  see  in 


234  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

■  their  hands,  in  their  hearts,  and  in  their  heads  for- 
tune, power  and  the  initiative, — speech,  intelli- 
gence and  glory.  Without  this  triple  strength  all 
their  privileges  vanish.  The  people,  like  women, 
love  strength  in  those  who  govern  them  and  their 
love  is  not  given  where  they  do  not  respect;  they 
will  not  yield  obedience  to  those  who  do  not  com- 
mand their  homage.  A  despised  aristocracy  is 
like  a  sluggard  king,  a  husband  in  petticoats;  it  is 
naught  before  it  becomes  nothing.  Thus  the  separa- 
tion of  the  great,  their  distinct  habits,  in  a  word 
the  general  customs  of  the  patrician  castes,  is  both 
the  symbol  of  a  real  power  and  the  cause  of  their 
destruction  when  they  have  lost  power.  The  Fau- 
bourg Saint-Germain  has  allowed  itself  to  be  tem- 
porarily cast  aside  because  it  has  not  chosen  to 
recognize  the  conditions  of  its  existence,  which 
existence  could  easily  have  been  perpetuated.  It 
should  have  had  the  good  faith  to  see  in  time,  as 
the  English  aristocracy  saw,  that  institutions  have 
their  climacteric  years  in  which  the  same  words 
have  no  longer  the  same  signification,  in  which 
ideas  clothe  themselves  in  new  garments,  and  in 
which  the  conditions  of  political  life  change  entirely 
their  form  without  any  essential  change  in  their 
being.  These  thoughts  have  natural  developments 
which  are  essentially  relevant  to  this  tale,  into 
which  they  enter  both  in  definition  of  its  causes 
and  in  explanation  of  its  facts. 

The  grandeur   of  chateaux    and    of  aristocratic 
palaces,  the  luxury  of  their    details,  the  constant 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  235 

sumptuousness  of  their  appointments,  the  orbit  in 
which  the  fortunate  proprietor,  rich  before  he  was 
born,  moves  without  constraint  and  without  dis- 
agreeable contacts;  the  habit  of  never  descending 
to  the  petty  daily  calculations  of  life,  the  leisure  at 
his  disposal,  the  superior  instruction  which  he  early 
acquires,  —  in  short,  all  those  patrician  traditions 
which  give  him  social  powers  which  his  adversaries 
can  scarcely  acquire  by  study,  by  a  force  of  will, 
by  tenacious  clinging  to  some  vocation, — all  these 
things  should  elevate  the  soul  of  a  man  who  from 
his  youth  possesses  such  privileges,  should  fill  him 
with  that  high  respect  for  himself  the  least  conse- 
quence of  which  is  a  nobility  of  the  heart  in  keep- 
ing with  the  nobility  of  tlie  name.  This  is  true  of 
certain  families.  Here  and  there  in  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Germain  may  be  met  noble  characters,  excep- 
tions which  weigh  against  the  widespread  egotism 
which  has  been  the  ruin  of  that  exclusive  world. 
These  advantages  pertain  to  the  French  aristocracy, 
as  they  do  to  all  the  patrician  flowering  which 
nations  produce  on  their  surface  as  long  as  their 
existence  rests  on  domain, — domain  of  the  soil  like 
the  domain  of  wealth,  the  only  solid  basis  of  regular 
society;  but  these  advantages  remain  with  patri- 
cians of  all  kinds  only  so  long  as  they  fulfill  the  con- 
dition upon  which  the  people  leave  them  in  posses- 
sion. They  hold  them  as  a  kind  of  moral  fief,  the 
tenure  of  which  has  its  obligations  to  the  sovereign, 
and  here  the  sovereign  is  certainly  to-day  the  peo- 
ple.     Times   have   changed,    and   so   have    arms. 


236  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

The  knight  to  whom  formerly  it  sufficed  to  wear  the 
coat  of  mail,  the  hauberk,  to  know  how  to  wield  his 
lance  and  to  display  his  pennon,  must  to-day  give 
proof  of  the  qualities  of  his  mind;  and  where  there 
was  formerly  required  only  a  brave  heart,  there  must 
be  to-day  a  strong  brain.  Art,  science  and  wealth 
are  the  social  triangle  on  which  the  arms  of  power 
are  now  blazoned  and  from  which  modern  aristocracy 
proceeds.  A  noble  theorem  is  the  equal  of  a  great 
name.  The  Rothschilds,  those  modern  Fuggers, 
are  princes  de  facto.  A  great  artist  is  really  an 
oligarchy,  he  represents  an  entire  century  and 
becomes  almost  always  a  law.  Thus,  the  gift  of 
language,  the  motor  power  at  high  pressure  of  the 
writer,  the  genius  of  the  poet,  the  perseverance  of 
the  merchant,  the  will  of  a  statesman  who  concen- 
trates in  himself  a  thousand  dazzling  qualities,  the 
sword  of  the  general,  these  personal  conquests  made 
by  an  individual  which  give  him  authority  over 
society, — the  aristocratic  class  should  seek  to 
acquire  to-day  the  monopoly  of  all  these,  as  for- 
merly it  had  that  of  material  strength.  To  remain 
at  the  head  of  a  nation,  is  it  not  always  necessary 
to  remain  worthy  of  conducting  it;  of  being  for  it 
the  soul  and  the  mind,  in  order  to  guide  the  hands.? 
How  can  a  people  be  led  without  the  qualities  of 
command?  What  would  be  the  marshal's  baton 
without  the  intrinsic  strength  of  the  captain  who 
holds  it  in  his  hand?  The  Faubourg  Saint-Germain 
has  played  with  batons,  thinking  them  the  power 
itself.     It  has  reversed  the  terms  of  the  proposition 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  237 

which  justify  its  existence.  Instead  of  throwing 
aside  the  symbols  which  offended  the  people  and 
holding  fast  secretly  the  essentials  of  power,  it  has 
let  the  bourgeoisie  seize  the  power  whilst  it  clung 
with  fatal  persistency  to  its  symbols,  and  has  con- 
stantly forgotten  the  laws  imposed  upon  it  by  its 
numerical  weakness.  An  aristocracy  which  per- 
sonally constitutes  scarcely  the  thousandth  part  of 
society  must,  to-day  as  heretofore,  multiply  its 
means  of  action  in  a  society  in  order  to  oppose  in 
the  great  crisis  a  weight  equal  to  that  of  the 
masses.  In  our  day,  means  of  action  should  be  real 
forces,  and  not  historicar  traditions.  Unhappily,  in 
France,  the  nobility,  still  swelling  with  a  sense  of 
its  ancient  and  banished  power,  excites  a  sort  of 
prejudice  against  which  it  is  difficult  for  it  to 
defend  itself.  Perhaps  this  is  a  national  defect. 
The  Frenchman,  more  than  any  other  man,  never 
finishes  on  a  lower  level ;  he  mounts  from  the  step 
on  which  he  finds  himself  to  that  next  higher ;  he 
seldom  pities  the  unfortunates  over  whose  heads  he 
lifts  himself,  he  sighs  only  to  see  so  many  happy 
ones  above  him.  Although  he  has  a  good  deal  of 
heart,  he  only  too  often  prefers  to  listen  to  his  intel- 
ligence. This  national  instinct  which  always  sends 
the  French  in  advance,  this  vanity  which  eats  into 
their  fortunes  and  rules  them  as  rigidly  as  the  prin- 
ciple of  economy  rules  the  Hollanders,  has  for  three 
centuries  absolutely  dominated  our  nobility,  which 
in  this  respect  has  been  eminently  French.  The 
man  of  the  Faubourg   Saint-Germain  has  always 


238  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

convinced  himself  of  his  intellectual  superiority 
because  of  his  material  superiority.  Everything  in 
France  has  convinced  him  of  this  because  since  the 
establishment  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain — an 
aristocratic  revolution  which  began  on  the  day  the 
monarchy  left  Versailles — the  Faubourg  Saint-Ger- 
main has,  allowing  for  a  few  lapses,  always  leaned 
upon  power,  which  will  always  be  in  France  more 
or  less  Faubourg  Saint-Germain.  Hence  its  defeat 
in  1830.  At  that  epoch  it  was  like  an  army  operat- 
ing without  a  base.  It  had  not  profited  by  the 
peace  to  plant  itself  in  the  heart  of  the  nation.  It 
sinned  from  a  defect  of  instruction,  and  from  a  total 
inability  to  survey  the  whole  field  of  its  interests. 
It  killed  a  certain  future  in  favor  of  a  doubtful  pres- 
ent. This,  perhaps,  was  the  reason  of  this  false 
policy:  the  physical  and  moral  distance  which  this 
superior  class  endeavored  to  maintain  between 
itself  and  the  rest  of  the  nation  has  fatally  had  for 
its  only  result,  in  the  last  forty  years,  the  develop- 
\  ment  in  the  upper  class  of  a  personal  sentiment  at 
1  the  expense  of  the  patriotism  of  caste.  Formerly, 
when  the  French  nobility  were  great,  rich  and  pow- 
erful, the  gentlemen  knew  how  in  moments  of  dan- 
ger to  choose  their  leaders  and  to  obey  them.  As 
they  became  less  eminent  they  showed  themselves 
less  capable  of  discipline;  and,  as  in  the  Later  Em- 
pire, each  one  wished  to  be  Emperor;  perceiving 
their  equality  in  weakness  each  fancied  himself 
individually  superior.  Every  family  ruined  by  the 
Revolution  and  by  the  equal  division  of  property 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  239 

thought  only  of  itself  instead  of  considering  the 
whole  great  family  of  the  aristocracy,  and  fancied 
that  if  each  were  enriched  the  whole  body  would 
be  strong.  An  error.  Wealth  is  but  a  sign  of 
power.  These  families,  composed  of  persons  who 
preserved  the  lofty  traditions  of  courtesy,  of  true 
elegance,  of  pure  language,  of  reserve  and  of  a  noble 
pride,  as  became  their  state — qualities  which 
become  petty  when  made  the  chief  occupation  of 
an  existence  to  which  they  should  only  be  acces- 
sory,—all  these  families  had  a  certain  intrinsic 
worth  which,  judged  superficially,  left  them  in  ap- 
pearance only  a  nominal  value.  Not  one  of  these 
families  has  had  the  courage  to  ask  itself,  "Are 
we  strong  enough  to  hold  supreme  power  ?  "  They 
flung  themselves  down  as  the  lawyers  did  in  1830. 
Instead  of  showing  itself  as  a  protector  like  a  gran- 
dee, the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  was  grasping  like 
a  parvenu.  The  day  on  which  it  was  demonstrated 
to  the  most  intelligent  nation  in  the  world  that  the 
restored  nobility  had  organized  power  and  the 
budget  for  its  own  profit,  that  day  the  nobility 
received  a  mortal  wound.  It  wished  to  be  an  aris- 
tocracy when  it  was  no  longer  capable  of  being  any- 
thing but  an  oligarchy, — two  widely  different 
systems,  as  will  be  comprehended  by  any  man 
clever  enough  to  read  intelligently  the  patronymic 
names  of  the  lords  of  the  Upper  Chamber.  Un- 
doubtedly the  royal  government  was  well  inten- 
tioned ;  but  it  constantly  forgot  that  it  was  necessary 
to  make  everything  for  the  best  for  the  people,  even 


240  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

their  own  happiness,  and  that  France,  that  capri- 
cious female,  will  be  made  happy  or  beaten  in  her 
own  way.  Had  there  been  many  dukes  like  the 
Due  de  Laval,  whose  modesty  made  him  worthy  of 
his  name,  the  throne  of  the  eldest  branch  would 
have  become  as  firm  as  that  of  the  House  of  Han- 
over. In  1814,  and  above  all  in  1820,  the  French 
nobility  had  to  rule  the  best  informed  epoch,  the 
most  aristocratic  middle-class,  and  the  most  femi- 
nine nation  in  the  world.  The  Faubourg  Saint- 
Germain  could  have  easily  led  and  amused  a  mid- 
dle-class intoxicated  with  worldly  distinctions, 
enamored  of  art  and  science.  But  the  petty  leaders 
of  this  great  epoch  of  intelligence  hated  all  the  art 
and  the  sciences.  They  did  not  even  know  how 
to  present  religion,  of  which  they  stood  greatly  in 
need,  under  the  poetic  colors  which  would  have 
made  it  beloved.  While  Lamartine,  Lamennais, 
Montalembert  and  other  writers  whose  talents  were 
lit  with  poetry  renewed  or  uplifted  religious  ideas, 
all  those  who  were  bungling  the  government  made 
the  bitterness  of  religion  to  be  felt.  Never  was  a 
nation  more  amenable,  it  was  at  that  time  like  a 
woman  who  weary  of  resisting  becomes  complacent; 
never  was  power  more  awkward  and  blundering; — 
France  and  womankind  love  real  faults  better.  To 
reinstate  itself,  to  found  a  great  oligarchy,  the 
nobility  of  the  Faubourg  should  have  searched  in 
good  faith  to  find  in  its  own  pockets  the  coins  of 
Napoleon,  should  have  eviscerated  itself  if  neces- 
sary to  give  birth  to  a  constitutional  Richelieu;  if 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  241 

this  genius  was  not  to  be  found  within  itself,  it 
should  have  gone  to  seek  it  even  in  the  cold  garret 
where  it  might  be  dying,  and  have  assimilated  it, 
as  the  English  House  of  Lords  constantly  assimi- 
lates to  itself  the  new  creations  of  the  aristoc- 
racy,— then  to  have  required  of  this  man  implac- 
able firmness,  the  pruning  off  all  the  dead  branches, 
the  trimming  down  to  the  ground  of  the  tree  of  the 
aristocracy.  But  in  the  first  place,  the  great  system 
of  English  Toryism  is  too  immense  for  little  heads; 
and  its  importation  would  have  taken  too  much  time 
for  the  French,  for  whom  a  gradual  success  is  no 
more  than  a.  fiasco.  Moreover,  far  from  having  that 
redeeming  policy  which  seeks  strength  wherever 
God  himself  has  put  it,  these  little-great  personages 
hated  all  strength  outside  of  their  own;  in  short, 
far  from  renewing  its  youth,  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Germain  grew  aged.  Etiquette,  an  institution  of 
secondary  importance,  could  have  been  maintained 
if  kept  for  great  occasions ;  but  etiquette  became  a 
daily  warfare,  and  instead  of  being  merely  a  matter 
of  art  or  of  magnificence,  it  became  a  question  of 
the  maintenance  of  power.  If  at  first  the  throne 
was  in  need  of  one  of  those  counselors  equal  to  the 
importance  of  the  circumstances,  the  Aristocracy 
lacked  above  all  that  due  knowldege  of  its  own 
general  interests  which  might  have  supplied  all 
other  deficiencies.  It  came  to  a  halt  before  the 
marriage  of  Monsieur  de  Talleyrand,  the  only  man 
with  one  of  those  metallic  heads  in  which  are  forged 
anew  the  political  systems  capable  of  gloriously 
16 


242  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

reviving  the  nations.  The  Faubourg  mocked  at 
ministers  who  were  not  nobles,  and  furnished  no 
nobles  capable  of  being  ministers;  it  might  have 
rendered  veritable  service  to  the  country  by  raising 
the  status  of  the  justices  of  the  peace,  by  fertil- 
izing the  soil,  by  constructing  roads  and  canals,  by 
making  itself  an  active  territorial  power;  but  it 
sold  its  estates  to  gamble  on  the  Bourse.  It  might 
have  drawn  from  the  bourgeoisie  men  of  action  and 
of  talent,  whose  ambition  undermined  its  power,  by 
opening  to  them  its  ranks;  it  preferred  to  combat 
them,  and  without  arms;  for  it  now  possessed  only 
as  a  tradition,  that  which  it  had  formerly  held  in 
reality.  For  the  misfortune  of  this  nobility,  it 
retained  precisely  enough  of  its  various  fortunes  to 
sustain  its  haughty  pride.  Content  with  these 
souvenirs,  not  one  of  these  families  thought  seri- 
ously of  selecting  arms  for  their  eldest  sons  among 
the  fasces  which  the  nineteenth  century  threw  down 
in  the  public  place.  Their  youth,  excluded  from 
public  affairs,  danced  at  the  balls  of  Madame, 
instead  of  continuing  at  Paris  under  the  influence 
of  the  fresh,  young,  conscientious  talents  of  the 
Empire  and  of  the  Republic,  the  work  which  the 
chiefs  of  each  of  these  families  should  have  begun 
in  all  departments  by  there  conquering  acknowledg- 
ment of  their  titles  by  continual  demands  in  favor 
of  local  interests,  by  conforming  to  the  spirit  of  the 
age,  by  remodeling  their  caste  according  to  the 
demands  of  the  century.  Concentrated  in  its  Fau- 
bourg Saint-Germain,  where  still  dwelt  the  spirit 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  243 

of  old  feudal  opposition  mingled  with  that  of  the  old 
Court,  the  aristocracy,  only  slightly  connected  with 
the  Tuileries,  was  more  easily  vanquished,  exist- 
ing as  it  did  only  on  one  ground,  and,  above  all,  as 
badly  constituted  as  it  was  in  the  Chamber  of 
Peers.  Had  it  become  an  integral  part  of  the 
country,  it  would  have  been  indestructible;  but 
cornered  in  its  Faubourg,  backed  against  the  chateau, 
spread  on  the  budget,  one  blow  of  the  axe  was 
sufficient  to  cut  the  thread  of  its  expiring  life, 
and  the  flat  figure  of  a  petty  lawyer  came  forward 
to  deal  this  stroke  of  the  axe.  Notwithstanding  the 
fine  speech  of  Monsieur  Royer-Collard,  the  heredi- 
tary rights  of  the  peerage  and  its  entailed  estates 
fell  before  the  pasquinades  of  a  man  who  boasted 
that  he  had  saved  many  heads  from  the  executioner, 
but  who  now  killed,  awkwardly  enough,  great  insti- 
tutions. There  may  be  found  in  this  warnings  and 
instruction  for  the  future.  If  the  French  oligarchy 
is  to  have  no  future  life  there  would  be  an  inexpres- 
sibly sad  cruelty  in  thus  torturing  it  after  its  death, 
and  there  should  be  thought  only  to  bury  it  with 
honors;  but  if  the  scalpel  of  the  surgeons  is  sharp 
to  feel,  it  often  gives  life  to  the  dying.  The  Fau- 
bourg Saint-Germain  may  find  itself  more  powerful 
under  persecution  than  it  ever  was  in  its  triumph, 
— if  it  find  for  itself  a  head  and  a  system. 

At  present,  it  is  easy  to  sum  up  this  semi-politi- 
cal sketch.  This  lack  of  broad  views  and  this  vast 
assemblage  of  small  errors;  the  desire  of  reestab- 
lishing large  fortunes    with    which  everyone  was 


244  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

preoccupied;  a  real  need  of  a  creed  to  sustain  politi- 
cal action ;  a  thirst  for  pleasure  which  lowered  the 
religious  tone,  and  necessitated  hypocrisies;  the 
partial  opposition  of  certain  nobler  spirits  who  saw 
clearly  and  who  were  displeased  by  the  rivalries  of 
the  Court;  the  nobility  of  the  provinces,  often 
purer  of  race  than  the  Court  nobles,  but  who,  too 
often  slighted,  became  disaffected, — all  these  causes 
combined  to  give  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  the 
most  discordant  elements.  It  was  neither  compact 
in  system  nor  consistent  in  its  acts,  neither  truly 
moral  nor  openly  licentious,  neither  corrupted  nor 
corrupting;  it  did  not  wholly  abandon  the  questions 
which  worked  to  its  injury  and  it  did  not  adopt 
ideas  which  might  have  saved  it.  In  short,  how- 
ever weak  its  personality  may  have  been,  the 
party  was  nevertheless  armed  with  all  those  grand 
principles  which  are  the  life  of  nations.  There- 
fore, how  was  it  that  it  perished  in  its  vigor.?  It 
was  exacting  in  its  selection  of  those  whom  it 
received;  it  had  good  taste,  much  elegant  supercili- 
ousness; yet  its  fall  had  certainly  nothing  of  the 
brilliant  or  chivalric  about  it.  The  emigration  of 
'89  was  brought  about  by  strong  sentiments ;  the 
domestic  emigration  of  1830  only  by  self-interest. 
The  names  of  some  men  illustrious  in  literature,  the 
triumphs  of  oratory.  Monsieur  de  Talleyrand  in  the 
congresses,  the  conquest  of  Algiers,  and  certain 
names  which  became  again  historic  on  battle- 
fields,— all  these  revealed  to  the  aristocracy  of  France 
the  means  which  remained  to  it  to  nationalize  itself 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  245 

and  to  win  back  the  recognition  of  its  rights,  if  only 
it  would  deign  to  take  them.  In  all  organized 
beings  there  is  manifested  the  workings  of  an 
inward  harmony.  If  a  man  is  lazy,  indolence 
betrays  itself  in  every  one  of  his  movements.  In 
like  manner  the  physiognomy  of  a  class  conforms  to 
its  general  spirit,  to  the  soul  which  animates  its 
body.  Under  the  Restoration  the  woman  of  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Germain  displayed  neither  the 
proud  hardihood  which  the  ladies  of  the  Court  for- 
merly carried  into  their  transgressions,  nor  the 
modest  dignity  of  the  tardy  virtues  with  which 
they  expiated  their  faults,  and  which  diffused 
around  them  such  a  vivid  lustre.  She  had  nothing 
that  was  very  frivolous,  nothing  that  was  very 
grave.  Her  passions,  with  a  few  exceptions,  were 
hypocritical ;  she  made  terms,  as  it  were,  with 
their  enjoyment.  A  few  of  these  families  lived  the 
bourgeoise  life  of  the  Duchesse  d'Orleans,  whose  '^^ 

conjugal  bed  was  so  absurdly  shown  to  visitors  of 
the  Palais-Royale ;  two  or  three  kept  up  with  diffi- 
culty the  habits  of  the  Regency  and  inspired  a  sort 
of  disgust  in  women  more  adroit  than  they.  This 
new  great  lady  had  no  influence  whatever  on  the 
manners  of  the  times;  she  could  have  nevertheless 
done  much,  she  could,  in  despair  of  cause,  have 
offered  the  imposing  spectacle  of  the  women  of  the 
English  aristocracy;  but  she  hesitated  stupidly 
among  her  old  traditions,  was  devout  from  compul- 
sion, and  concealed  everything,  even  her  good  qual- 
ities.    Not  one  of  these  French  women  could  create 


A-vi'^ 


246  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

a  salon  to  which  the  leaders  of  society  might  come 
to  acquire  lessons  in  taste  and  elegance.  Their 
voices,  once  so  potent  in  literature — that  living 
expression  of  all  societies — were  now  absolutely 
without  sound.  When  a  literature  has  no  general 
system  it  has  no  body,  and  disappears  with  its  day. 
Whenever,  in  any  age,  there  is  found  in  the  midst 
of  a  nation  a  body  of  people  apart,  thus  constituted, 
the  historian  nearly  always  finds  among  them  some 
principal  personage  who  illustrates  in  himself  the 
virtues  and  the  defects  of  the  society  to  which  he 
belongs, — Coligny  among  the  Huguenots,  the  Coad- 
jutor in  the  bosom  of  the  Fronde,  the  Marechal  de 
Richelieu  under  Louis  XV.,  Danton  in  the  Terror. 
This  identity  of  physiognomy  between  a  man  and 
his  historical  train  is  in  the  nature  of  things.  To 
lead  parties,  must  we  not  be  in  harmony  with  their 
ideas?  to  shine  in  an  epoch,  must  we  not  represent 
it?  From  this  constant  obligation  laid  upon  the 
sagacious  and  prudent  leaders  of  the  people  to  con- 
sider the  prejudices  and  follies  of  the  masses  which 
follow  them,  come  the  acts  for  which  certain  his- 
torians blame  these  leaders,  when — at  a  safe  dis- 
tance from  terrible  popular  convulsions — they  judge 
in  cold  blood  the  passions  which  are  most  necessary 
to  conduct  great  secular  struggles.  That  which  is 
true  of  the  historical  comedy  of  the  ages  is  equally 
true  in  the  narrower  sphere  of  those  partial  scenes 
in  the  national  drama  which  are  called  its  manners 
and  customs. 


At  the  beginning  of  the  ephemeral  life  which 
the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  led  under  the  Restora- 
tion, and  to  which — if  the  preceding  considerations 
are  true — it  did  not  know  how  to  give  stability,  a 
young  woman  was  for  a  time  the  most  com- 
plete type  of  the  nature,  at  once  superior  and  fee- 
ble, grand  and  petty,  of  her  caste.  She  was  a 
woman  artificially  educated,  really  ignorant;  full  of 
elevated  sentiments,  yet  lacking  one  thought  to 
bring  them  into  co-ordination;  expending  the 
richest  treasures  of  her  soul  on  conventionalities; 
ready  to  defy  society,  but  hesitating  and  falling 
into  artifice  as  the  natural  consequence  of  her  scru-  <  Iv^*'-'' 
pies;  having  more  positiveness  than  character, 
more  infatuation  than  enthusiasm,  more  head  than 
heart;  eminently  a  woman  and  eminently  a  co- 
quette, above  all  Parisian;  loving  brilliancy,  fes^ 
tivities;  reflecting  not  at  all,  or  reflecting  too  late; 
of  an  imprudence  which  came  near  being  poetical ; 
charmingly  insolent,  but  humble  in  the  depths  of  her 
heart;  asserting  strength  like  a  reed  erect,  but  like 
this  reed  ready  to  bend  beneath  a  strong  hand;  talk- 
ing much  of  religion,  yet  not  loving  it,  and  yet 
ready  to  accept  it  as  an  issue.  How  shall  we 
explain  a  creature  so  veritably  many-sided,  capable 
of  heroism,  and  forgetting  to  be  heroic  for  the  sake 
of   uttering   some   malicious    saying;    young    and 

(247) 


248  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

agreeable,  less  old  in  heart  than  aged  by  the  max- 
ims of  the  world  about  her,  and  comprehending 
their  egotistical  philosophy  without  ever  having 
applied  it;  having  all  the  vices  of  the  courtier 
and  all  the  nobility  of  adolescent  womanhood;  dis- 
trusting all  things,  and  yet  yielding  herself  up  at 
moments  to  the  fulness  of  faith  ?  Must  not  forever 
remain  this  unfinished  portrait  of  this  woman,  in 
which  the  most  changeable  tints  clashed  while  yet 
producing  a  poetic  confusion,  for  there  was  in  it  a 
divine  light,  a  gleam  of  youth,  which  blended  these 
confused  tints  into  a  sort  of  harmonious  whole? 
Her  grace  served  her  for  unity.  Nothing  in  her 
was  feigned.  These  passions,  these  half-passions, 
these  slight  indications  of  grandeur,  this  reality  of 
pettiness,  these  cold  feelings  and  these  warm  im- 
pulses, were  natural  to  her  and  sprang  as  much  from 
her  personal  position  as  from  that  of  the  aristocracy 
to  which  she  belonged.  She  alone  fully  compre- 
^  hended  herself,  and  she  held  herself  proudly  above 
the  world,  in  the  shelter  of  her  great  name.  There 
was  something  of  the  /  of  Medea  in  her  life,  as  in 
that  of  the  aristocracy,  which  was  dying  without 
being  willing  to  rouse  itself,  or  extend  its  hand  to 
any  political  physician,  or  to  touch,  or  to  be 
touched,  so  profoundly  did  it  feel  itself  fainting  or 
already  dust.  The  Duchesse  de  Langeais,  as  she 
was  named,  had  been  married  about  four  years  at 
the  consummation  of  the  Restoration,  that  is  to 
say  in  1816,  that  epoch  in  which  Louis  XVllI.,  en- 
lightened by  the  revolution  of  the  Hundred-Days, 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  249 

comprehended  his  situation  and  his  century,  in  spite 
of  his  advisers,  who  nevertheless  triumphed  later 
over  this  Louis  XI.  without  an  axe — as  soon  as  he 
was  struck  down  by  disease.  The  Duchesse  de  Lan- 
geais  was  a  Navarreins,  a  ducal  family  which  from 
the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  had  maintained  the  principle 
of  never  abdicating  its  own  title  in  its  marriages. 
The  daughters  of  this  house  were  all  to  have, 
sooner  or  later,  like  their  mother,  the  right  to  be 
seated  in  the  royal  presence.  At  the  age  of  eighteen 
Antoinette  de  Navarreins  issued  from  the  deep 
seclusion  in  which  she  had  been  brought  up  to 
marry  the  eldest  son  of  the  Due  de  Langeais.  The 
two  families  were  then  living  isolated  from  the 
world;  but  the  invasion  of  France  promised  to  the 
Royalists  the  return  of  the  Bourbons  as  the  only 
possible  conclusion  to  the  misfortunes  of  war.  The 
Dues  de  Navarreins  and  de  Langeais,  remaining 
faithful  to  the  Bourbons,  had  nobly  resisted  all  the 
seductions  of  the  imperial  glory,  and  in  the  circum- 
stances in  which  they  found  themselves  at  the 
period  of  this  marriage  they  were  naturally  obliged 
to  follow  the  ancient  policy  of  their  families. 
Mademoiselle  Antoinette  de  Navarreins,  beautiful 
and  poor,  was  therefore  married  to  the  Marquis  de 
Langeais,  whose  father  died  a  few  months  after  this 
marriage.  On  the  return  of  the  Bourbons  the  two 
families  resumed  their  rank,  their  functions,  and 
their  court  dignities,  and  again  entered  the  social 
world  from  which  they  had  long  held  themselves 
aloof.     They  now  stood  at  the  summit  of  this  new 


2  50  LA  DUCHESSE   DE  LANGEAIS 

political  world.  In  that  period  of  cowardice  and  of 
false  conversions  the  public  conscience  was  gratified 
to  recognize  in  these  two  families  spotless  fidelity, 
the  harmony  between  private  life  and  political 
character  to  which  all  parties  render  involuntary 
homage.  But,  by  a  misfortune  not  uncommon  in 
times  of  transformation,  the  most  upright  person- 
ages, those  who  by  the  elevation  of  their  views, 
the  wisdom  of  their  principles,  would  have  brought 
about  in  France  a  belief  in  the  generosity  of  a  new 
and  bold  policy,  were  pushed  aside  from  the  conduct 
of  affairs,  which  fell  into  the  hands  of  those  who 
were  interested  in  carrying  principles  to  an  extreme 
as  a  pledge  of  their  devotion.  The  de  Langeais' 
andde  Navarreins' families  remained  in  the  highest 
sphere  of  court  life,  condemned  to  the  duties  of  its 
etiquette  as  well  as  exposed  to  the  reproaches  and 
the  ridicule  of  liberalism,  accused  of  gorging  them- 
selves with  honors  and  wealth  while  in  point  of 
fact  their  patrimony  had  in  no  wise  increased  and 
their  receipts  from  the  civil  list  were  consumed  by 
the  mere  cost  of  appearance, — a  necessity  in  all 
European  monarchies,  even  in  those  which  are 
republican.  In  1818,  Monsieur  le  Due  de  Langeais 
held  the  command  of  a  military  division,  and  the 
duchess  had  a  position  with  a  princess  which  en- 
abled her  to  live  in  Paris,  far  from  her  husband, 
without  scandal.  The  due  had  in  addition  to  his 
command,  a  function  at  Court,  to  which  he  some- 
times came,  leaving  on  such  occasions  his  command 
to  a  field  marshal.     The  due  and  the  duchesse  thus 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  25 1 

lived  entirely  separated  from  each  other,  both  in 
fact  and  in  heart,  though  unknown  to  the  world. 
This  marriage  of  convention  had  resulted  as  such 
family  compacts  usually  do.  Two  characters,  the 
most  uncongenial  in  the  world,  were  brought 
together,  they  secretly  irritated  each  other,  were 
both  secretly  wounded,  and  separated  forever. 
Then  each  had  followed  his  own  nature  and  the 
habits  of  the  world.  The  Due  de  Langeais,  as 
methodical  in  mind  as  the  Chevalier  de  Folard, 
gave  himself  up  systematically  to  his  tastes  and  his 
pleasures,  and  left  his  wife  free  to  follow  her  own, 
after  having  recognized  in  her  an  eminently  proud 
spirit,  a  cold  heart,  a  deep  submission  to  the  usages 
of  the  world,  a  youthful  loyalty  which  was  likely  to 
remain  unsullied  under  the  eyes  of  her  great  rela- 
.ives  and  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  Court  at  once 
pious  and  prudish.  He  adopted  then,  deliberately 
and  coolly,  the  part  of  a  grand  seigneur  of  the  pre- 
ceding century,  abandoning  to  herself  a  young 
woman  of  twenty-two,  deeply  offended,  and  who 
had  in  her  character  an  alarming  quality,  that  of 
never  pardoning  an  offense  when  all  her  feminine 
vanities,  when  her  self-love,  her  virtues,  perhaps, 
had  been  misunderstood,  secretly  wounded.  When 
an  outrage  is  public,  a  woman  likes  to  forget  it,  it 
gives  her  an  opportunity  to  exalt  herself,  she  is  a 
woman  in  her  forgiveness ;  but  they  never  forgive 
secret  wrongs,  because  they  love  neither  concealed 
cowardice,  nor  virtue,  nor  love. 

Such  was  the  position,  unknown  to  the  world. 


252  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

in  which  Madame  la  Duchesse  de  Langeais  found 
herself,  and  on  which  she  wasted  no  reflections 
when  the  fetes  in  honor  of  the  marriage  of  the  Due 
de  Berri  took  place.  On  this  occasion  the  Court 
and  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  came  out  of  their 
apathy  and  their  reserve.  This  event  was  the  real 
commencement  of  that  unheard-of  splendor  so  use- 
lessly displayed  by  the  government  of  the  Restora- 
tion. At  this  period,  the  Duchesse  de  Langeais, 
from  policy  or  from  vanity,  never  appeared  in  the 
world  without  being  surrounded  or  accompanied  by 
three  or  four  women  as  distinguished  by  their  names 
as  by  their  position.  Queen  of  society,  she  had 
her  ladies-in-waiting  who  reproduced  elsewhere  her 
manners  and  her  wit.  She  had  skilfully  chosen 
them  from  among  those  who  were  closely  allied 
neither  with  the  Court  nor  with  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Germain,  but  who  aspired  to  both  positions; 
simple  dominions  which  wished  to  elevate  them- 
selves to  the  edge  of  the  throne  and  to  mingle  with 
the  seraphic  powers  of  that  high  sphere  called  le 
Petit  Chateau.  In  such  a  position,  the  Duchesse  de 
Langeais  was  stronger,  ruled  better  and,  moreover, 
was  more  secure.  Her  ladies  defended  her  against 
calumny  and  aided  her  to  play  the  contemptible  role 
of  a  woman  of  fashion.  She  could  at  her  ease  laugh 
at  men,  at  their  passions,  excite  them,  gather  in 
the  homage  which  nourishes  all  female  natures, 
and  remain  mistress  of  herself.  At  Paris  and  in  the 
highest  circles  woman  is  always  woman;  she  lives 
by    incense,    flatteries    and   honors.       The    truest 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE  LANGEAIS  253 

beauty,  the  most  admirable  face,  is  nothing  if  it  is 
not  admired ;  a  lover,  the  sycophancy  of  adulation, 
are  the  attestations  of  her  power.  What  is  power 
if  unknown  ?  Nothing.  The  very  prettiest  woman 
alone  in  a  corner  of  the  salon  is  unhappy.  When 
one  of  these  creatures  is  at  the  centre  of  social 
magnificence  she  desires  then  to  reign  in  all  hearts, 
often  from  lack  of  power  to  be  the  happy  sovereign 
in  one  alone.  These  toilets,  these  charms,  these 
coquetries,  were  all  provided  for  the  most  paltry 
beings  that  were  ever  found  in  any  society,  fops 
without  mind,  men  whose  sole  merit  was  a  hand- 
some face,  and  for  whom  all  women  compromised 
themselves  without  profit;  veritable  idols  of  wood 
gilded,  which,  with  a  few  exceptions,  had  neither 
the  antecedents  of  the  coxcombs  in  the  days  of  the 
^-'ronde,  nor  the  good  solid  value  of  the  heroes  of 
the  Empire,  nor  the  wit  and  manners  of  their  grand- 
fathers, but  who  assumed  nevertheless  to  possess 
these  advantages  gratis;  who  were  brave,  as  is 
the  French  youth;  they  had  ability,  doubtless,  if 
put  to  the  proof,  but  they  could  accomplish  nothing 
under  the  reign  of  the  worn-out  old  men  who  held 
them  in  leash.  It  was  a  cold,  petty  and  unpoetical 
epoch.  Perhaps  it  requires  a  good  deal  of  time  for 
a  restoration  to  become  a  monarchy. 

For  eighteen  months  the  Duchesse  de  Langeais 
had  been  leading  this  empty  life,  filled  exclusively 
with  balls,  and  visits  concerning   balls,  with  tri-      / 
umphs  without  an  object,  with  ephemeral  passions 
born  and  dead  in  a  night.     When  she  entered  a 


2  54  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

room  all  eyes  turned  upon  her,  she  gathered  a  har- 
vest of  flattering  words,  sometimes  passionate 
expressions  which  she  encouraged  with  a  gesture, 
a  glance,  and  which  could  never  penetrate  her  fair 
exterior.  Her  tone,  her  manner,  everything  about 
her  marked  authority.  She  lived  in  a  sort  of  fever 
of  vanity,  of  perpetual  amusement  which  made  her 
giddy.  In  her  conversation  she  would  go  to  great 
lengths,  she  listened  to  everything,  and  depraved — 
so  to  speak — the  surface  of  her  heart.  When  alone 
she  often  blushed  over  the  recollection  of  things  at 
which  she  had  laughed,  of  some  scandalous  story 
the  details  of  which  had  aided  her  in  discussing 
theories  of  love  of  which  she  knew  nothing,  and 
the  subtle  distinctions  of  modern  passion  which 
obliging  hypocrites  of  her  own  sex  explained  to  her ; 
for  women,  able  to  say  everything  to  each  other, 
lose  more  among  themselves  than  they  do  by  men's 
corruption.  There  came  a  time  when  she  compre- 
hended that  the  woman  beloved  was  the  only  one 
whose  beauty,  whose  spirit,  could  be  universally 
recognized.  What  did  a  husband  prove?  Merely 
that  a  young  girl,  a  woman  either  with  a  rich  por- 
tion or  well  brought  up,  had  had  a  clever  mother,  or 
that  she  satisfied  a  man's  ambition;  but  a  lover  is 
a  constant  announcement  of  her  personal  perfec- 
tions. Madame  de  Langeais  learned,  young  as  she 
was,  that  a  woman  could  allow  herself  to  be  loved 
ostensibly  without  sharing  in  love,  without  sanc- 
tioning it,  without  gratifying  it  except  by  the  most 
meagre  service  of  love,  and  more  than  one  demure 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  255 

hypocrite  revealed  to  her  the  method  of  playing 
these  dangerous  comedies.  The  duchess  therefore 
had  her  court,  and  the  number  of  those  who  adored 
her  or  courted  her  was  a  guarantee  of  her  virtue. 
She  was  coquettish,  gracious,  seductive  to  the  end 
of  the  fete,  of  the  ball,  of  the  soiree;  then  when  the 
curtain  fell  she  became  again  solitary,  cold,  care- 
less, and  yet,  nevertheless,  revived  the  next  morn- 
ing for  other  emotions  equally  superficial.  There 
were  two  or  three  young  men,  completely  deceived, 
who  really  loved  her,  and  whom  she  derided  with  a 
perfect  lack  of  feeling.  She  would  say  to  herself  "I 
am  loved — he  loves  me!"  This  certainty  sufficed 
her.  Like  the  miser,  content  in  the  knowledge 
that  his  whims  can  be  satisfied,  she  did  not  go,  per- 
haps, so  far  as  to  desire. 

One  evening  she  was  at  the  house  of  one  of  her 
intimate  friends,  Madame  la  Vicomtesse  de  Fon- 
taine, one  of  her  humble  rivals,  who  hated  her  cor- 
dially and  accompanied  her  everywhere;— a  species 
of  armed  friendship  in  which  each  is  suspicious, 
and  in  which  the  confidences  are  skilfully  discreet, 
sometimes  perfidious.  After  distributing  a  few 
patronizing  recognitions,  affectionate  or  disdainful, 
with  the  natural  air  of  a  woman  who  knows  all  the 
value  of  her  smiles,  her  eyes  chanced  to  fall  upon 
a  man  wholly  unknown  to  her,  but  whose  large  and 
grave  figure  surprised  her.  She  felt  in  looking  at 
him,  an  emotion  sufficiently  like  that  of  fear. 

"My  dear,"  she  asked  of  Madame  de  Maufrig- 
neuse,  "who  is  that  newcomer?" 


256  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

"A  man  of  whom  you  have  no  doubt  heard,  the 
Marquis  de  Montriveau. " 

"Ah!  it  is  he." 

She  took  her  eyeglass  and  examined  him  some- 
what insolently,  as  she  would  have  looked  at  a  por- 
trait which  receives  all  glances  and  can  return  none. 

"Present  him  to  me,  he  must  be  amusing." 

"No  one  could  be  more  tiresome  nor  more  gloomy, 
my  dear.     But  he  is  all  the  fashion." 


Monsieur  Armandde  Montriveau  was  at  this  time, 
though  unaware  of  it,  the  object  of  a  general  curios- 
ity, and  he  was  worthy  of  it  much  more  than  any  of 
those  passing  idols  of  which  Paris  has  need  and  with 
which  it  is  enamored  for  a  few  days  in  order  to  sat- 
isfy that  passion  of  infatuation  and  of  factious  en- 
thusiasm with  which  it  is  periodically  afflicted. 
Armand  de  Montriveau  was  the  only  son  of  General 
de  Mon+riveau,  one  of  those  ci-devant  who  nobly 
served  the  Republic,  and  who  fell,  killed  by  the  side 
of  Joubert,  at  Novi.  The  orphan  was  placed 
through  the  care  of  Bonaparte  in  the  military  school 
at  Chalons,  and  taken,  with  several  other  sons  of 
generals  killed  in  battle,  under  the  protection  of  the 
French  Republic.  On  leaving  this  school,  without 
fortune,  he  entered  the  artillery,  and  was  only  in 
command  of  a  battalion  at  the  time  of  the  disaster 
of  Fontainebleau.  The  arm  to  which  he  belonged 
offered  few  chances  of  promotion.  In  the  first  place, 
the  number  of  officers  is  more  limited  than  in  any 
other  branch  of  the  service;  in  the  second  the  lib- 
eral, and  almost  republican,  opinions  prevalent 
among  the  artillery,  the  fears  inspired  in  the  Em- 
peror's mind  by  a  body  of  skilled  men,  accustomed 
to  reflection,  hindered  the  military  fortunes  of  the 
most  of  them.  Therefore,  contrary  to  the  usual 
rule,  officers  advanced  to  the  grade  of  general  were 
17  (257) 


258  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

not  always  the  most  distinguished  members  of  this 
arm,    for,    being   mediocrities,    they   gave   rise   to 
fewer  fears.     The  artillery  was  a  corps  apart  in  the 
army,  and  belonged  to  Napoleon  only  on  the  field 
of   battle.      To  these   general    causes   which    may 
explain  the  checks  encountered  in  his  career  by 
Armand  de  Montriveau,  were  joined  others  inherent 
in   his   person   and   his   character.     Alone    in   the 
world,  thrown  at  the  age  of  twenty  years  into  that 
tempest  of  men   in  the  midst  of  which  Napoleon 
lived,  and  having  no   interest  outside  of  himself, 
prepared  to  meet  death  day  by  day,  he  accustomed 
himself  to  live  only  by  an   inward  esteem  and  by 
the  consciousness  of  duty  fulfilled.     He  was  habit- 
ually silent,  as  are  all  timid  men;  but  his  timidity 
did  not  come  from  lack  of  courage,  it  was  a  sort  of 
modesty  which  forbade  in  him  all  vain  demonstra- 
tion.    His  intrepidity  on  the  battle-field  was  never 
ostentatious;  he  saw  everything,  could  tranquilly 
give  good  advice  to  his  comrades,  and  advance  in 
face  of  the  bullets,  stooping  at  the  right  moment  to 
avoid  them.     He   was   kind,  but   his   countenance 
made  him  seem  haughty  and  severe.     Of  mathe- 
matical strictness  in  everything,   he  admitted  no 
hypocritical  compromise,  neither  with  the  duties  of 
a  position  nor  with  the  consequences  of  a  deed.    He 
lent  himself  to  nothing  shameful,  never  asked  any- 
thing for  himself;  in  short,   he  was  one  of  those 
great  unknown  men,  philosophical  enough  to  despise 
glory,  and  who  live  without  attachment  to  life  be- 
cause they  find  no  way  to  develop  their  powers  or 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  259 

their  opinions  to  their  full  extent.  He  was  feared, 
held  in  esteem,  but  little  loved.  Men  will  permit 
us  indeed  to  rise  above  them,  but  they  will  never 
forgive  us  for  not  descending  to  their  level.  Thus 
their  sentiments  towards  great  characters  are  never 
without  a  little  of  hatred  and  of  fear.  To  be  too 
honorable  is  for  them  a  tacit  censure,  which  they 
forgive  neither  to  the  living  nor  the  dead.  After 
the  parting  at  Fontainebleau,  Montriveau,  though 
noble  and  titled,  was  placed  on  half  pay.  His 
antique  integrity  alarmed  the  ministry  of  war, 
where  his  faithfulness  to  his  oath  taken  to  the 
imperial  eagle  was  well  known.  During  the  Hun- 
dred-Days he  was  appointed  colonel  of  the  Guard, 
and  was  left  behind  on  the  field  of  Waterloo.  His 
wounds  having  detained  him  in  Belgium,  he  was 
not  with  the  army  of  the  Loire;  but  the  royal  gov- 
ernment refused  to  recognize  the  ranks  bestowed 
during  the  Hundred-Days,  and  Armand  de  Montri- 
veau left  France.  Led  by  his  spirit  of  enterprise, 
by  that  nobility  of  mind  which  up  to  this  time  the 
chances  of  war  had  satisfied,  and  possessed  by  his 
instinctive  rectitude  to  undertake  projects  of  great 
utility.  General  de  Montriveau  embarked  in  the 
design  of  exploring  Upper  Egypt  and  the  unknown 
parts  of  Africa,  the  central  countries  particularly, 
which  to-day  excite  so  much  interest  among  men  of 
science.  His  scientific  expedition  was  long  and 
unfortunate.  He  had  gathered  many  valuable  notes 
which  would  have  aided  in  the  solution,  so  ardently 
sought    for,    of    many   geographical    or    industrial 


260  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

problems,  and  he  had  penetrated,  not  without  having 
surmounted    innumerable  obstacles,  to  the  heart  of 
Africa,  when  he  fell  by  treason  into  the  power  of  a 
savage  tribe.     He  was  stripped  of  everything,  held 
in   slavery,  and   driven   for   two  years  across  the 
deserts,   threatened    with  death  at  every  moment 
and  treated  worse  than  an  animal  made  the  sport  of 
pitiless  children.     His  bodily  strength  and  his  con- 
stancy of  soul  enabled  him  to  endure  all  the  horrors 
of  his  captivity  ;  but  he  almost  completely  exhausted 
his  energy  in  effecting  his  escape,  which  was  noth- 
ing less  than  miraculous.     He  reached  the  French 
settlement  of  the  Senegal  half-dead,  in  rags,  having 
no  longer  anything  but  confused  recollections.     The 
immense   sacrifices   of   his   journey,  the   study   of 
African  dialects,  his  discoveries  and  observations, 
were  all  lost.     A  single  fact  will  serve  to  illustrate 
his  sufferings:    During  several  days  the  children  of 
the  Sheik  of  the  tribe   in  which  he  was  a  slave 
amused  themselves  by  taking  his  head  for  the  tar- 
get in  a  game  which  consisted  of  throwing  from  a 
sufficient  distance  the  small   bones  of  horses  and 
making  them  stick  in  this  target.     Montriveau  re- 
turned to  Paris  about  the  middle  of  the  year  1818, 
ruined  in  prospects,  without  patrons  and  seeking 
none.     He  would  have  died  twenty  times  rather 
than  solicit  a  favor,  no  matter  what  it  might  be,  not 
even  the  recognition  of  his  own  rights.     Adversity 
and  suffering  had  developed  his  energy   even   in 
\  small  things,  and  the  habit  of  maintaining  his  dig- 
nity as  a  man   in  presence  of    that  moral   being 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  261 

which  we  call  conscience,  gave  importance  in  his 
mind  to  acts  apparently  the  most  insignificant. 
Nevertheless,  his  connection  with  the  principal 
scientific  men  of  Paris  and  with  a  few  military  men 
of  attainments  made  known  his  merits  and  his 
adventures.  The  particulars  of  his  captivity  and 
his  escape,  those  of  all  his  travels  in  fact,  revealed 
so  much  intelligence,  courage  and  self-possession 
that  he  acquired,  without  being  aware  of  it,  that 
fleeting  celebrity  of  which  the  salons  of  Paris  are 
so  prodigal,  but  which  demands  unheard-of  efforts 
from  those  artists  who  may  wish  to  perpetuate  it 
Toward  the  end  of  this  year  his  position  suddenly 
changed.  From  poor  he  became  rich,  or  at  least  he 
had  all  the  external  advantages  of  wealth.  The 
royal  government,  which  sought  to  attach  to  itself 
the  men  of  merit  in  order  to  give  real  strength  to 
the  army,  began  to  make  some  concessions  to  those 
old  officers  whose  loyalty  and  known  character 
offered  guarantees  of  fidelity.  Monsieur  de  Montr i- 
veau  was  reestablished  in  his  rank  on  the  army 
lists,  received  all  his  back  pay,  and  was  admitted 
to  the  Royal  Guard.  These  favors  were  succes- 
sively shown  to  him  without  any  request  on  his 
part.  His  friends  spared  him  all  personal  efforts, 
which  he  certainly  would  never  have  made  for  him- 
self. Then,  contrary  to  his  habits,  which  suddenly 
changed,  he  began  to  go  into  society,  where  he  was 
favorably  received  and  where  he  met  on  all  sides 
evidences  of  high  esteem.  He  seemed  to  have 
reached  some  end  in  his  life;  but  in  him  all  took 


262  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

place  within  his  own  breast  and  he  made  no  exter- 
na! demonstration.  He  bore  in  society  a  grave 
and  reserved  manner,  he  was  silent  and  cold.  He 
had  therein  much  success,  just  because  he  presented 
a  sharp  contrast  to  the  mass  of  conventional 
physiognomies  which  furnished  the  salons  of  Paris, 
—where,  in  fact,  he  was  entirely  strange.  His 
speech  had  the  conciseness  of  the  language  of  soli- 
tary men  and  savages.  His  shyness  was  taken  for 
pride  and  pleased  greatly.  He  was  something 
strange  and  grand,  and  women  were  so  much  the 
more  generally  taken  with  this  original  character 
because  he  escaped  from  their  adroit  flatteries, 
from  those  manoeuvres  by  which  they  circumvent 
the  most  powerful  men  and  soften  the  most  inflexi- 
ble minds.  Monsieur  de  Montriveau  did  not  in  the 
least  understand  these  little  Parisian  tricks,  and  his 
soul  could  only  respond  to  the  sonorous  vibrations 
of  lofty  sentiments.  He  would  promptly  have  been 
dropped  were  it  not  for  the  romance  of  his  adven- 
tures and  his  life,  for  the  praises  which  were 
sounded  behind  his  back  without  his  knowledge, 
and  for  that  triumph  of  vanity  which  was  waiting 
for  the  woman  who  was  destined  to  occupy  his 
thoughts.  Thus  the  curiosity  of  the  Duchesse  de 
Langeais  was  as  lively  as  it  was  natural.  As  it 
happened,  she  had  become  interested  in  this  man 
the  night  before,  for  she  had  heard  the  narration  of 
one  of  the  scenes  in  the  travels  of  Monsieur  de 
Montriveau  which  was  most  calculated  to  impress 
the  lively  imagination  of  a  woman.     In  an  excursion 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAFS  263 

toward  the  sources  of  the  Nile,  he  had  with  one 
of  his  guides  the  most  extraordinary  struggle  known 
in  the  annals  of  travel.  There  was  a  desert 
which  could  only  be  crossed  on  foot  in  order  to 
reach  a  region  he  was  anxious  to  explore.  There 
was  but  one  guide  capable  of  leading  him  there. 
Up  to  that  time  no  traveler  had  been  able  to  pene- 
trate to  this  region,  in  which  the  intrepid  officer 
believed  he  should  find  the  solution  of  several 
scientific  problems.  In  spite  of  the  representations 
made  to  him  by  the  old  men  of  the  country  and  by 
his  guide,  he  undertook  this  terrible  journey.  Arm- 
ing himself  with  all  his  courage,  sharpened  more- 
over by  the  assurance  of  the  terrible  difficulties  to 
overcome,  he  started  early  one  morning.  After 
marching  for  the  entire  day  he  slept  that  night  upon 
the  sand,  a  prey  to  an  extraordinary  fatigue  caused 
by  the  shiftiness  of  the  sand,  which  gave  way  under 
his  foot  at  every  step.  However,  he  knew  that  on 
the  morrow  he  must  resume  his  route,  and  his  guide 
had  assured  him  that  by  the  middle  of  the  day  he 
should  reach  his  goal.  This  assurance  gave  him 
courage  and  renewed  his  strength,  and  in  spite  of 
his  sufferings  he  continued  his  march,  cursing 
science  a  little,  but,  ashamed  to  complain  openly 
before  his  guide,  he  kept  his  sufferings  secret.  He 
had  traveled  for  a  third  of  the  day  when,  conscious 
of  his  exhausted  strength  and  with  his  feet  bleed- 
ing from  the  journey,  he  asked  if  they  would  soon 
arrive.  "In  an  hour,"  said  the  guide.  Armand 
roused  his  strength  for  one  hour  more,  and  went  on. 


264  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

The  hour  passed  by  and  he  was  not  able  to  see, 
even  on  the  horizon,  a  horizon  of  sand  as  broad  as 
that  of  the  open  sea,  the  palm  trees  and  the  mount- 
ains whose  tops  should  announce  the  end  of  his 
journey.  He  stopped,  refused  to  go  farther,  threat- 
ened his  guide,  reproached  him  as  his  murderer,  for 
having  deceived  him;  tears  of  rage  and  of  fatigue 
ran  down  his  scorched  cheeks;  he  was  overwhelmed 
with  the  increasing  suffering  of  the  march  and  his 
throat  seemed  closing  with  the  thirst  of  the  desert. 
The  guide,  unmoved,  listened  to  his  reproaches 
with  an  ironical  air  while  seeming  to  study,  with 
the  apparent  indifference  of  an  Oriental,  the  imper- 
ceptible irregularities  of  the  sand,  almost  blackish 
like  burnished  gold. 

"I  was  mistaken,"  he  said  coldly.  "It  is  too 
long  since  I  have  followed  this  road  for  me  to  be 
able  to  recognize  the  landmarks;  we  are  in  the 
right  way,  but  we  shall  have  to  march  two  hours 
more." 

"The  man  is  doubtless  right,"  thought  Monsieur 
de  Montr iveau. 

Then  he  resumed  his  route,  following  painfully 
the  pitiless  African,  to  whom  he  seemed  tied  by  a 
rope,  as  a  condemned  man  is  invisibly  to  his  execu- 
tioner. But  the  two  hours  passed,  the  Frenchman 
had  expended  the  last  drops  of  his  energy  and  the 
horizon  was  still  clear,  he  saw  on  it  neither  palms 
nor  mountains.  He  had  no  strength  left  for  cries 
or  murmurs,  he  stretched  himself  on  the  sand  to 
die;    but   his  look  might  have  terrified  the  most 


M.  DE  MOXTRIVEAU  AND  HIS  GUIDE 


The  tiuo  hours  passed,  the  Frenchman  had  ex- 
pended the  last  drops  of  /us  energy  and  the  horizon 
was  still  clear,  he  sazv  on  it  neither  palms  nor  moun- 
tains. He  had  no  strength  left  for  cries  or  murmnrs, 
he  stretched  himself  on  the  sand  to  die ;  Init  his  look 
might  have  terrified  the  most  intrepid  man,  it  seemed 
to  annotince  that  he  ivoiild  not  die  alone.  His  guide, 
like  a  veritable  demon,  replied  luith  a  calm  glance, 
full  of  pozuer. 


'^6y<^^^'A./i^  /*S6jy  '.OilS. 


=te 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  265 

intrepid  man,  it  seemed  to  announce  that  he  would 
not  die  alone.  His  guide,  like  a  veritable  demon, 
replied  with  a  calm  glance,  full  of  power,  and  left 
him  where  he  lay, — taking  care  to  place  himself  at 
a  distance  which  would  permit  him  to  escape  his 
victim's  despair.  Finally,  Monsieur  de  Montriveau 
gathered  his  strength  for  a  last  imprecation.  The 
guide  drew  nearer,  looked  at  him  fixedly,  motioned 
him  to  silence,  and  said: 

"Did  you  not  insist,  in  spite  of  us,  on  going  to 
the  place  to  which  I  am  now  guiding  you.?  You 
reproach  me  with  deceiving  you;  if  I  had  not  done 
so,  you  would  not  have  come  as  far  as  this.  Do 
you  wish  for  the  truth,  here  it  is.  We  have  still 
five  hours  of  march  before  us,  and  we  cannot  turn 
back  on  our  steps.  Sound  your  heart,  if  you  have 
not  enough  courage,  here  is  my  poniard." 

Surprised  by  this  frightful  comprehension  of 
suffering  and  of  human  strength.  Monsieur  de  Montri- 
veau would  not  fall  below  the  standard  of  a  barba- 
rian; and,  drawing  from  his  European  pride  a  fresh 
draught  of  courage,  he  rose  to  follow  his  guide.  The 
five  hours  passed  by.  Monsieur  de  Montriveau  still 
perceived  nothing,  he  turned  a  dying  eye  upon  his 
guide;  but  at  the  same  moment  the  Nubian  took 
him  on  his  shoulders,  lifted  him  up  a  few  feet  and 
showed  him  at  the  distance  of  a  hundred  steps  a 
lake  surrounded  by  verdure  and  a  noble  forest  lit 
up  by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  They  had 
arrived  within  a  short  distance  of  an  immense 
granite  ledge  beneath  which  this  sublime  landscape 


266  LA  DUCHESSE   DE  LANGEAIS 

lay,  as  it  were,  buried.  Armand  felt  himself  born 
again,  and  his  guide,  this  giant  of  intelligence  and 
courage,  ended  his  labor  of  devotion  by  carrying 
him  across  the  burning  and  polished  paths  scarcely 
traced  on  the  granite.  He  saw  on  one  side  the  hell 
of  sand  and  on  the  other  the  terrestrial  paradise  of 
the  most  beautiful  oasis  in  these  deserts. 

The  duchess,  already  struck  by  the  aspect  of  this 
romantic  personage,  was  still  more  interested  when 
she  learned  that  she  saw  in  him  the  Marquis  de 
Montriveau  of  whom  she  had  dreamed  during  the 
night.  To  have  found  herself  in  the  burning 
sands  of  the  desert  with  him,  to  have  had  him 
for  the  companion  of  her  nightmare,  was  not  this 
for  a  woman  of  her  nature  a  delightful  presage  of 
amusement?  No  man  ever  better  expressed  his 
character  in  his  person  than  Armand  de  Montri- 
veau, or  challenged  more  inevitably  the  thoughts  of 
others.  His  head,  which  was  large  and  square, 
had  for  its  principal  characteristic  trait  an  enor- 
mous and  abundant  mass  of  black  hair  which  sur- 
rounded his  face  in  a  way  that  perfectly  recalled 
General  Kleber,  whom  he  also  resembled  by  the 
vigor  expressed  in  his  forehead,  by  the  shape  of 
his  face,  by  the  tranquil  courage  of  his  eyes,  and 
by  the  ardor  expressed  in  his  strong  features.  He 
was  small  of  stature,  broad  in  the  chest,  muscular 
as  a  lion.  When  he  walked,  his  carriage,  his  step, 
his  least  gesture,  indicated  an  inexpressible  con- 
sciousness of  power  which  was  imposing  and  had 
something  despotic  in  it.     He  seemed  to  know  that 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  267 

nothing  could  oppose  his  will,  perhaps  because  he 
willed  only  that  which  was  right.     Nevertheless,  \ 
like  all   men   really  strong,  he  was  gentle  in  his    * 
speech,    simple    in   manner    and    naturally    kind. 
Only  it  seemed  that  all  these  fine  qualities  might 
disappear   under   certain    grave    circumstances   in  ' 
which  the  man  would  become  implacable  in  his  con- 
victions, fixed  in  his  resolves,  terrible  in  his  action. 
A  close  observer  would  have  been  able  to  see  at  the 
closing  line  of  his  lips  a  slight  upward  curve  which 
was  habitual  and  which  betrayed  his  disposition  to 
irony. 


* 

The  Duchesse  de  Langeais,  knowing  the  passing 
value  of  the  conquest  of  such  a  man,  resolved,  during 
the  few  moments  that  the  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse 
took  to  bring  him  up  for  presentation,  to  make  him 
one  of  her  lovers,  to  give  him  precedence  over  all 
the  others,  to  attach  him  to  her  suite  and  to  display 
for  him  all  her  coquetry.  It  was  a  whim,  the  pure 
caprice  of  a  duchess  with  which  Lope  de  Vega  or_ 
Calderon  would  have  made  The  Gardener's  Dog.  She 
resolved  that  this  man  should  belong  to  no  other 
woman,  but  she  did  not  imagine  that  she  might 
belong  to  him.  The  Duchesse  de  Langeais  had 
received  from  nature  all  the  qualities  necessary  to 
play  the  role  of  a  coquette  and  her  education  had 
perfected  them.  Women  had  good  reason  to  envy 
her,  and  men  to  love  her.  Nothing  was  lacking  in 
her  which  could  inspire  love,  which  could  justify  it, 
and  which  could  perpetuate  it.  Her  style  of  beauty, 
her  address,  her  attitudes,  all  combined  to  give  her 
the  grace  of  natural  coquetry  which  in  a  woman 
seems  to  be  the  consciousness  of  her  power.  She 
was  well  formed  and  her  movements  perhaps  had 
in  them  a  little  too  much  ease,  the  only  affectation 
with  which  she  could  be  reproached.  Everything 
about  her  was  in  harmony,  from  the  least  little 
gesture  to  the  particular  turn  of  her  phrases,  to  the 
hypocritical    manner    in   which  she   launched   her 

(269) 


270  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

glances.     The  predominating  character  of  her  coun- 
tenance  was   a   refined   nobleness,  which  did   not 
destroy    her    entirely  French  mobility  of  person. 
These  ever  changing  attitudes  had  an  infinite  charm 
for  men.     It  seemed  as  though  she  would  be  the 
most  delicious  of  mistresses  when  she  laid  aside 
her  corset  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  her  outward 
show.     In  fact,  the  germs  of  all  the  joys  of  love 
were  in  the  freedom  of  her  expressive  glance,  in 
the  caressing  tones  of  her  voice,  in  the  grace  of  her 
words.     She  let  it  be  seen  that  there  was  in  her  a 
noble  courtesan,  vainly  denied  by  the  religion  of 
the  duchess.     Whoever  passed  an  evening  beside 
her    found   her   alternately   gay    and    melancholy, 
without  her  ever  having  the  air  of  pretended  gaiety 
or  gravity.     She  seemed  able  to  be  at  will  cour- 
teous, contemptuous,  sarcastic  or   confiding.      She 
seemed  kind,  and  really  was  so.     In  her  position, 
nothing  obliged  her  to  descend    to   maliciousness. 
At  times  she  showed  herself  alternately  trustful  and 
distrustful,  easily  moved  to  tenderness,  then  hard 
and  chilling  enough  to  break  a  heart.     But  to  prop- 
erly paint  her  would  it  not  be  necessary  to  gather 
together  every  feminine  antithesis;  in  a  word,  she 
was  everything  she  wished  to  be  or  seem.     Her 
face,  which  was  perhaps  a  trifle  too  long,  had  in  it 
a  grace,  something  spiritual,  slender,  which  recalled 
the  faces  of  the  Middle  Ages.     Her  skin  was  pale 
with  delicate  rose  tints.     Everything  in  her  erred, 
so  to  speak,  through  excessive  delicacy. 

Monsieur   de   Montriveau   allowed  himself  very 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  27 1 

willingly  to  be  presented  to  the  Duchesse  de  Lan- 
geais  who,  with  the  exquisite  tact  that  avoids  com- 
monplaces, received  him  without  overv/helming 
him  with  questions  or  compliments,  but  with  a  cer- 
tain respectful  grace  which  should  flatter  a  superior 
man,  for  superiority  in  a  man  implies  a  little  of 
that  tact  which  enables  women  to  divine  so  surely 
in  all  matters  of  sentiment.  If  she  showed  some 
curiosity  it  was  only  in  her  glance;  if  she  flattered, 
it  was  only  by  her  manner;  and  she  displayed  that 
prettiness  of  speech,  that  delicate  desire  to  please, 
which  she  knew  how  to  show  better  than  anyone 
else.  But  all  her  conversation  was,  in  some  sort, 
only  the  body  of  the  letter;  there  was  to  be  a  post- 
script in  which  the  real  thought  would  be  uttered. 
When  after  half  an  hour  of  light  conversation  in 
which  the  accent,  the  smiles  alone,  gave  any  value 
to  the  word.  Monsieur  de  Montriveau  seemed  to  wish 
to  retire  discreetly,  the  duchess  retained  him  by  an 
expressive  gesture. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said  to  him,  "I  do  not  know  if 
the  few  moments  during  which  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  conversing  with  you  have  offered  you 
sufficient  attraction  to  justify  me  in  inviting  you  to 
come  and  see  me ;  1  am  afraid  that  there  would  be  a 
great  deal  of  egotism  in  wishing  to  claim  you.  If 
1  have  been  so  happy  as  to  make  the  prospect  agree- 
able to  you,  you  will  always  find  me  in  the  evening 
until  ten  o'clock." 

These  words  were  said  so  softly  that  Monsieur 
de  Montriveau   could   do  no   less  than  accept  the 


272  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

invitation.  When  he  fell  back  among  the  group  of 
men  who  stood  at  some  distance  from  the  women  sev- 
eral of  his  friends  congratulated  him,  half  in  jest  and 
half  in  earnest,  on  the  unusual  welcome  that  had 
been  accorded  him  by  the  Duchesse  de  Langeais. 
This  difficult,  this  illustrious  conquest  they  declared 
was  undoubtedly  made,  and  the  glory  thereof  had 
been  reserved  for  the  artillery  of  the  Guard.  It  is 
easy  to  imagine  the  good  and  evil  pleasantries 
which  this  topic,  once  launched,  suggested  in  one 
of  these  Parisian  salons  where  amusement  is  so 
eagerly  sought  and  where  the  jests  are  of  such  brief 
duration  that  each  one  hastens  to  gather  the  flower 
while  it  blooms. 

These  foolishnesses  flattered  the  general  uncon- 
sciously. From  the  place  where  he  stationed  him- 
self his  eyes  were  drawn  to  the  duchess  by  many 
confused  impulses;  and  he  could  not  help  admitting 
to  himself  that,  of  all  the  women  whose  beauty  had 
charmed  his  eyes,  not  one  had  ever  offered  him  a 
more  delightful  expression  of  the  virtues,  the  de- 
fects, the  harmonies  which  the  most  juvenile  imag- 
ination in  France  could  desire  in  a  mistress.  What 
man,  in  whatever  rank  fate  has  placed  him,  has  not 
felt  in  his  soul  an  indefinable  joy  in  finding  in  a 
woman  whom  he  chooses,  even  in  his  dreams,  for  his 
own,  the  triple  perfections,  moral,  physical  and 
social,  which  permit  him  always  to  see  in  her  all 
his  wishes  accomplished?  If  it  is  not  a  cause  of 
love,  this  flattering  union  of  qualities  is  assuredly 
one  of  the  greatest  incentives  to  feeling.     Without 


LA  DUCHESSE  AND  M.  DE  MONTRIVEAU 


TJic  DucJicssc  de  Langcais,  kiioicing  the  passing 
value  of  the  conquest  of  such  a  man,  resolved  *  *  * 
to  make  him  one  of  her  lovers,  to  give  him  prece- 
dence over  all  the  others,  to  attach  him  to  her  suite 
and  to  display  for  him  all  her  coquetry.  It  was  a 
xvhini,  the  pure  caprice  of  a  duchess  ivith  zvhich 
Lope  de  Vega  or  Calderon  luould  Jiave  made  The 
Gardener's  Dog.  She  resolved  that  this  man  should 
belong  to  no  other  luoman,  hut  she  did  not  imagine 
that  she  might  belong  to  him. 


,fM^  6/.  3. 


Oui(-   Fti  ju  j,,  j 


U'.i  rr^er. 


!fac-t 


acv^e^   »y  ^ 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  273 

vanity,  said  a  great  moralist  of  the  last  century, 
love  is  a  convalescent.     There  is  undoubtedly,  for 
man  as  for  woman,  a  treasure-house  of  delight  in 
the  superiority  of  the  being  beloved.     Is  it  not  a 
great  deal,  not  to  say  everything,  to  know  that  our 
self-love  can  never  be  wounded  through  her ;  that 
she  is  sufficiently  noble  never  to  be  wounded  by  a 
contemptuous  glance,  sufficiently  wealthy  to  be  sur- 
rounded by  a  splendor  equal  to  that  in  which  the 
ephemeral  sovereigns  of  finance  wrap  themselves, 
sufficiently  witty  never  to  be  humiliated  by  a  fine 
jest,  and  beautiful  enough  to  be  the  rival  of  all  her 
sex?     Such  reflections  as  these  a  man  makes  in  a 
twinkling  of  an  eye.     But  if  the  woman  who  in- 
spires them  offers  him  at  the  same  time,  for  the 
future  of  his  sudden  passion,  the  changing  charms 
of  grace,  the   ingenuousness  of  a  virgin  soul,  the 
thousand  changes   of  the  toilets  of  coquettes,  the 
perils  of  love,  will  not  the  heart  of  the  coldest  man 
be  stirred?     Here  is  the  situation  which  Monsieur 
de  Montriveau  occupied  at  this  period  with  relation 
to   women,   and   his  past  life  was    in   a   measure 
responsible  for  the   oddness  of  the  circumstance. 
Thrown  while  young  into  the  tempest  of  the  French 
wars,   living  always  on  fields  of  battle,  he  knew 
woman  only  as  a  hurried  traveler  passing  fiom  inn 
to  inn  knows  the  country  through  which  he  travels. 
Perhaps  he  could  have  said  of  his  life,  as  Voltaire 
at  the  age  of  eighty  said  of  his,  and  had  he  not 
thirty-seven  follies  with  which  to  reproach  himself? 
He  was,  at  his  age,  as  new  to  love  as  the  young 
18 


274  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

man  who  has  just  read  Faublas  in  secret.  Of  woman, 
he  knew  all ;  but  of  love,  he  knew  nothing;  and  the 
virginity  of  his  sentiment  thus  furnished  him  new 
desires.  Some  men,  engrossed  by  labors  to  which 
they  have  been  condemned  by  poverty  or  ambition, 
art  or  science,  as  Monsieur  de  Montriveau  had  been 
carried  away  by  the  fortunes  of  war  and  the  events 
of  his  life,  know  this  singular  situation,  though  they 
seldom  avow  it  In  Paris,  every  man  is  supposed 
to  have  loved.  No  woman  desires  him  for  whom 
no  other  woman  has  sighed.  From  the  fear  of  being 
thought  an  imbecile  spring  the  falsehoods  of  self- 
conceit  so  common  in  France,  where  to  be  taken  for 
an  imbecile  is  not  to  be  of  the  fatherland.  At  this 
moment  Monsieur  de  Montriveau  was  a  prey  to  a 
passionate  desire,  a  desire  aggrandized  by  the  burn- 
ing sun  of  the  deserts  and  by  a  swelling  of  the  heart 
of  which  he  had  never  before  known  the  fiery  em- 
brace. As  strong  as  he  was  passionate,  this  man 
knew  how  to  suppress  his  emotions;  but  even  while 
conversing  about  trifling  subjects  he  withdrew  into 
his  own  mind  and  swore  to  himself  that  he  would 
win  that  woman,  the  only  thought  through  which 
he  could  enter  into  love.  His  desire  became  an 
oath,  sworn  after  the  manner  of  the  Arabs  with 
whom  he  had  lived,  for  whom  an  oath  is  a  con- 
tract made  between  them  and  their  whole  destiny, 
which  they  stake  on  the  success  of  the  enterprise 
consecrated  by  the  oath,  and  in  which  they  count 
even  their  death  as  one  chance  the  more  of  success. 
A  young  man  would  have  said  to  himself,  "1  would 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  275 

very  much  like  to  have  the  Duchesse  de  Langeais 
for   my  mistress! "  another,  "The  man  whom  the 
Duchesse  de  Langeais  loves  will  be  a  very  happy 
fellow!"     But  the  general  said  to  himself,  "I  will 
have  for  mistress  Madame  de  Langeais."     When  a  v 
man,  virgin  in  heart  and  for  whom  love  becomes  a    / 
religion,  admits  such  a  thought,  he  does  not  know  /' 
into  what  a  hell  he  sets  his  foot. 

Monsieur  de  Montriveau  left  the  salon  abruptly 
and  went  home,  devoured  by  the  first  access  of  his 
first  fever  of  love.  If,  towards  middle  age,  a  man 
still  retains  the  beliefs,  the  illusions,  the  freedom 
and  the  impetuosity  of  childhood,  his  first  move- 
ment is,  so  to  speak,  to  put  forth  his  hand  to  seize 
the  object  of  his  desire;  then  when  he  has  measured 
the  distance,  almost  impossible  to  cross,  which  sep- 
arates him  from  it,  he  is  seized,  like  children,  with 
a  sort  of  astonishment  or  of  impatience  which  gives 
new  value  to  the  object  desired;  he  trembles  or  he 
weeps.  Thus  it  happened  that  on  the  morrow, 
after  the  most  stormy  reflections  which  had  ever 
shaken  his  soul,  Armand  de  Montriveau  found  him- 
self under  the  dominion  of  his  emotions,  concen- 
trated by  the  pressure  of  a  true  love.  This  woman, 
so  cavalierly  treated  the  night  before,  had  now  be- 
come for  him  the  most  sacred,  the  most  feared  of 
powers.  She  was  thenceforward  for  him  life  and  \y 
the  world.  The  mere  recollection  of  the  slightest 
emotion  she  had  caused  him  paled  the  greatest 
joys,  the  keenest  pains,  of  his  past  life.  The 
most  rapid  revolutions  trouble  only  the  interests  of 


276  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

man,  but  one  passion  can  overthrow  all  his  senti- 
ments. Thus,  for  those  who  live  rather  by  feelings 
than  by  interests,  for  those  who  have  more  of  soul 
and  blood  than  of  mind  and  lymph,  true  love  changes 
the  whole  course  of  existence.  With  one  stroke, 
with  one  thought,  Armand  de  Montriveau  effaced 
his  whole  past  life.  After  having  asked  himself 
twenty  times,  like  a  child,  "shall  I  go.?  shall  I  not 
go.?"  he  dressed  and  went  to  the  Hotel  de  Langeais, 
about  eight  in  the  evening,  and  was  admitted  to 
the  presence  of  the  woman,  no,  not  the  woman,  but 
the  idol,  he  had  seen  the  night  before  under  the 
blaze  of  lights,  like  a  fresh  and  pure  young  girl, 
clothed  in  white,  in  gauze  and  in  veils.  He  arrived 
impetuously  to  declare  his  love,  as  if  it  were  an 
affair  of  the  first  cannon  shot  on  a  field  of  battle. 
Poor  neophyte!  he  found  his  vaporous  sylphid  en- 
veloped in  a  peignoir  of  brown  cashmere,  skilfully 
flounced,  languidly  lying  upon  a  divan  in  a  dusky 
boudoir.  Madame  de  Langeais  did  not  even  rise, 
she  showed  only  her  head,  with  the  hair  somewhat 
in  disorder  though  covered  by  a  veil.  With  a  hand 
which  in  the  faint  light  produced  by  the  trembling 
flame  of  a  single  wax  candle  placed  at  a  distance 
from  her,  seemed  to  the  eyes  of  Montriveau  as 
white  as  a  hand  of  marble,  she  made  him  a  sign 
to  be  seated,  and  said  in  a  voice  as  soft  as  the 
light: 

"If  it  were  anyone  but  you.  Monsieur  le  Marquis, 
if  it  had  been  a  friend  with  whom  I  could  take  a 
liberty  or  some  indifferent  acquaintance  who  would 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  277 

only  slightly  interest  me,  I  should  have  sent  you 
away.     You  find  me  suffering  fearfully." 

Armand  said  to  himself: 

"I  must  go." 

"But,"  she  added  with  a  glance  at  him  the  fire 
of  which  the  ingenuous  soldier  attributed  to  fever, 
"I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  from  a  presentiment 
of  your  kind  visit,  of  the  promptness  of  which 
I  cannot  be  more  sensible,  but  for  the  last  few 
minutes  I  have  seemed  to  feel  my  head  clear 
itself." 

"I  may  then  remain?"  said  Montriveau  to 
her. 

"Ah!  I  should  be  sorry  indeed  to  have  you  go.  I 
said  to  myself  this  morning  that  I  could  not  have 
made  any  impression  upon  you;  that  you  had 
doubtless  taken  my  invitation  for  one  of  those 
meaningless  phrases  of  which  Parisian  women  are 
so  prodigal,  and  I  pardoned  your  ingratitude  in  ad- 
vance. A  man  who  comes  from  the  desert  is  not 
expected  to  know  how  exclusive  in  its  friendships 
our  Faubourg  is." 

These  gracious  words,  half  murmured,  fell  one  by 
one  and  were  as  if  freighted  with  the  pleased  feel- 
ing that  seemed  to  dictate  them.  The  duchess 
wished  to  have  all  the  benefits  of  her  headache, 
and  her  speculation  was  a  complete  success.  The 
poor  soldier  suffered  really  from  the  pretended 
suffering  of  this  woman.  Like  Crillon,  hearing  the 
story  of  the  passion  of  the  Saviour,  he  was  ready 
to  draw  his  sword  against  the  headache.     Ah!  how 


278  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

could  he  now  dare  to  speak  to  this  invalid  of  the 
love  which  she  inspired?  Armand  comprehended 
already  that  he  would  be  ridiculous  to  fire  his  love 
point-blank  at  so  superior  a  being.  He  compre- 
hended by  one  thought  all  the  niceties  of  feeling 
and  the  exigencies  of  the  soul.  To  love,  is  it  not 
to  know  how  to  plead,  to  crave,  to  wait?  If  he  felt 
this  love,  must  he  not  prove  it?  He  found  himself 
silenced,  chilled,  by  the  proprieties  of  the  noble 
Faubourg,  by  the  majesty  of  the  headache,  and  by 
the  timidities  of  genuine  love.  But  no  power  on 
earth  could  have  veiled  the  look  in  his  eyes  in 
which  flamed  the  glow,  the  infinitude  of  the  desert, 
eyes  calm  like  those  of  panthers,  and  over  which 
the  lids  rarely  fell.  She  liked  much  this  fixed  look 
which  bathed  her  in  light  and  in  love. 

"Madame  la  Duchesse,"  he  replied,  "I  should 
fear  to  express  to  you  badly  my  gratitude  for  your 
goodness.  At  this  moment  I  wish  for  but  one  thing, 
the  power  to  dissipate  your  suffering." 

"Permit  me  to  get  rid  of  this,  I  am  now  too 
warm,"  she  said,  throwing  off  by  a  movement  full 
of  grace  the  cushion  that  had  lain  upon  her  feet, 
which  she  now  showed  in  all  their  splendor. 

"Madame,  in  Asia  your  feet  would  be  valued  at 
nearly  ten  thousand  sequins." 

"Travelers'  flattery,"  she  said  smiling. 

This  bright  creature  took  delight  in  drawing  the 
stern  Montriveau  into  a  conversation  full  of  trifling, 
of  commonplaces  and  of  nonsense,  in  which  he 
manoeuvred,  to  use  a  military  phrase,  like  Prince 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  279 

Charles  when  pitted  against  Napoleon.  She 
amused  herself  maliciously  in  recognizing  the 
extent  of  this  new  passion  by  the  number  of  foolish 
things  wrested  from  this  novice  whom  she  led,  step 
by  step,  into  an  inextricable  labyrinth  in  which  she 
proposed  to  leave  him,  very  much  ashamed  of  him- 
self. She  began  therefore  by  laughing  at  him, 
pleasing  herself  nevertheless  by  making  him  forget 
the  time.  The  length  of  a  first  visit  is  often  a 
llattery,  but  in  this  Armand  was  not  her  accom- 
plice. The  celebrated  traveler  had  been  in  her 
boudoir  an  hour,  talking  of  everything,  having  said 
nothing,  conscious  that  he  was  only  an  instrument 
in  the  hands  of  this  woman  who  was  playing  upon 
him,  when  she  moved,  sat  up,  threw  around  her 
neck  the  veil  which  she  had  on  her  head,  leaned 
on  her  elbows,  did  him  the  honors  of  a  complete 
recovery,  and  rang  for  lights.  To  the  absolute  inac- 
tion in  which  she  had  been  lying  succeeded  move- 
■nents  full  of  grace.  She  turned  towards  Monsieur 
Je  Montriveau  and  said  in  reply  to  a  confidence 
which  she  had  just  wrung  from  him  and  which 
seemed  to  give  her  a  lively  interest: 

"You  are  laughing  at  me  when  you  try  to  make 
me  believe  that  you  have  never  loved.  That  is  a 
favorite  pretence  of  men  before  us.  We  believe 
them.  Pure  politeness!  Do  we  not  know  how 
much  of  this  to  believe?  Where  is  the  man  who 
has  never  encountered  in  his  life  one  single  occa- 
sion to  be  in  love?  But  you  delight  to  deceive  us, 
and   we   let  you   do   it,   silly  fools  that  we   are, 


28o  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

because  your  deceptions  are  still  a  homage  paid  to 
the  superiority  of  our  sentiments,  which  are  always 
pure." 

This  last  phrase  was  pronounced  with  an  accent 
full  of  haughtiness  and  of  pride  which  made  of  this 
novice  of  a  lover  a  ball  flung  down  to  the  bottom  of 
an  abyss  and  of  the  duchess  an  angel  floating 
upward  towards  her  own  particular  heaven. 

"The  deuce,"  cried  Armand  de  Montriveau 
within  his  soul,  "how  shall  I  ever  tell  this  far-of/ 
being  that  I  love  her?" 

He  had  already  told  her  so  twenty  times,  or 
rather  the  duchess  had  twenty  times  read  it  in  his 
eyes  and  perceived  in  the  passion  of  this  truly  great 
man  an  amusement  for  herself,  an  interest  in  a  life 
hitherto  devoid  of  interest.  She  was  therefore 
prepared  already  to  throw  up,  with  the  greatest 
skill,  a  certain  number  of  redoubts  around  her 
which  she  would  give  him  to  carry,  one  by  one, 
before  he  would  be  permitted  to  enter  the  citadel  of 
her  heart.  Plaything  of  her  caprices,  Montriveau 
was  to  be  kept  stationary  while  all  the  time  sur- 
mounting obstacle  after  obstacle,  as  an  insect  tor- 
mented by  a  child  jumps  from  one  fmger  to  another, 
thinking  it  is  getting  away,  while  its  malicious 
executioner  keeps  it  at  the  same  place.  Neverthe- 
less, the  duchess  recognized  with  an  inexpressible 
pleasure  that  this  man  of  character  had  not  lied  in 
his  assertion.  Armand  had,  in  fact,  never  loved. 
He  was  about  to  take  his  leave,  discontented  with 
himself,  still  more  discontented  with  her;  but  she 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  28 1 

saw  with   delight  an    ill-humor   which   she   knew 
how  to  dissipate  with  a  word,  a  look,  a  gesture. 

"Will  you  come  to-morrow  evening?"  she  said 
to  him.  "I  am  going  to  a  ball,  I  shall  expect  you 
up  to  ten  o'clock." 


* 

The  greater  part  of  the  next  day  was  spent  by 
Montriveau  seated  in  the  window  of  his  study  and 
smoking  an  indefinite  number  of  cigars.  He  could 
only  thus  wait  for  the  hour  in  which  to  dress  and  to 
go  to  the  Hotel  de  Langeais.  It  would  have  been 
pitiful  for  those  who  knew  the  noble  worth  of  this 
man  to  see  him  thus  so  belittled,  so  agitated,  to 
know  that  this  mind  whose  faculties  might  embrace 
worlds  was  now  contracted  to  the  limits  of  the  bou- 
doir of  an  exquisitely  elegant  woman.  But  he  felt 
himself  already  so  fallen,  in  his  happiness,  that  to 
save  his  life  he  would  not  have  confided  his  love  to 
his  most  intimate  friend.  In  the  modesty  which 
takes  possession  of  a  man  when  he  loves,  is  there 
not  always  some  sense  of  shame,  and  is  it  not  his 
littleness  which  swells  the  pride  of  a  woman.-*  In 
short,  is  there  not  a  crowd  of  motives  of  this 
species,  but  which  women  never  explain  to  them- 
selves, which  lead  almost  all  of  them  to  be  the  first 
to  betray  the  secret  of  their  love,  a  secret  of  which 
they  weary,  perhaps .-' 

"Monsieur, "  said  the  valet  de  chambre,  "Madame 
la  Duchesse  is  not  yet  visible,  she  is  dressing,  and 
begs  you  to  wait  for  her." 

Armand  walked  about  the  salon,  studying  the 
taste  displayed  in  the  least  details.  He  admired 
Madame  de  Langeais  in  admiring  the  things  which 

(283) 


284  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

were  hers  and  which  betrayed  her  habits,  even 
before  he  was  fully  conscious  of  her  individuality 
or  of  her  thoughts.  After  waiting  about  an  hour 
the  duchess  came  from  her  chamber,  softly,  with- 
out noise.  Montriveau  turned,  saw  her  walking 
with  the  lightness  of  a  shadow  and  quivered.  She 
came  to  him  without  saying  as  a  bourgeoise  might 
have  done,  "What  do  you  think  of  me?  "  She  was 
sure  of  herself,  and  her  steadfast  look  said,  "I  have 
adorned  myself  thus  to  please  you."  Some  old 
fairy  godmother  of  some  hidden  princess,  alone 
could  have  wound  about  the  throat  of  this  charming 
creature  the  cloud  of  gauze  whose  folds  held  bril- 
liant tones  which  lit  up  still  more  the  clearness  of 
her  satin  skin.  The  duchess  was  dazzling.  The 
delicate  blue  of  her  gown,  whose  ornaments  were 
repeated  in  the  flowers  in  her  hair,  seemed,  by  the 
richness  of  its  color,  to  give  substance  to  its  frail 
texture,  at  times  quite  aerial;  for  in  advancing 
rapidly  towards  Armand  she  caused  to  float  behind 
her  the  two  ends  of  the  scarf  which  hung  at  her 
side,  and  the  gallant  soldier  could  not  but  compare 
her  with  those  pretty  blue  insects  which  hover 
above  the  waters,  among  the  flowers,  with  which 
they  seem  to  blend. 

"I  have  made  you  wait,"  she  said  in  the  voice 
which  women  know  how  to  assume  for  the  man  they 
wish  to  please. 

"I  would  wait  patiently  an  eternity  if  I  could  fmd 
a  divinity  beautiful  as  you;  but  it  is  not  a  compli- 
ment to  speak  to    you  of  your  beauty,   you   can 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  285 

accept  nothing  less  than  adoration.     Let  me  then 
only  kiss  your  scarf." 

"Ah,  fie!"  she  said  with  a  proud  gesture,  "I 
esteem  you- enough  to  offer  you  my  hand." 

And  she  held  out  to  him  her  still  moist  hand. 
The  hand  of  a  woman,  at  the  moment  when  she 
issues  from  her  perfumed  bath,  retains  an  inexpres- 
sibly tender  freshness,  a  velvety  softness,  of  which 
the  tingling  impression  goes  from  the  lips  to  the 
soul.  Thus,  in  a  man  already  charmed,  who  has 
in  his  senses  as  much  voluptuousness  as  he  has 
love  in  his  heart,  this  kiss,  chaste  in  appearance, 
may  excite  redoubtable  storms. 

"Will  you  always  offer  it  to  me  thus?  "  said  the 
general,  humbly  kissing  with  respect  this  dangerous 
hand. 

"Yes;  but  we  will  go  no  farther,"  she  said  smil- 
ing. 

She  sat  down  and  seeemd  to  be  curiously  awkward 
in  putting  on  her  gloves  and  in  slipping  the  kid 
which  was  at  first  too  tight,  around  her  slender  fin- 
gers, looking  at  the  same  time  at  Monsieur  de  Mon- 
triveau,  who  admired  alternately  the  duchess  and 
the  grace  of  her  repeated  gestures. 

"Ah,  this  is  well,"  she  said,  "you  have  been 
punctual,  I  love  punctuality.  His  Majesty  says 
that  it  is  the  politeness  of  kings;  but,  in  my  opin- 
ion, between  us,  I  think  it  the  most  respectful  of 
flattery.  Eh!  is  it  not  so."*  Don't  you  think  so?  " 
Then  she  looked  at  him  sideways  again  to  ex- 
press to  him  a  deceiving  friendship,  finding  him 


286  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

mute  with  pleasure,  and  positively  happy  with 
these  nothings.  Ah!  the  duchess  understood  mar- 
velously  well  her  business  as  a  woman,  she  knew 
admirably  how  to  lift  a  man  up  in  proportion  as  he 
humbled  himself,  and  to  reward  him  with  hollow 
flatteries  at  each  step  that  he  took  in  descending  to 
the  sillinesses  of  sentimentality. 

"You  will  not  forget  to  come  always  at  nine 
o'clock." 

"No,  but  do  you  go  to  a  ball  every  night?  " 

"How  can  I  tell?"  she  replied,  shrugging  her 
shoulders  with  a  little  childish  gesture,  as  if  to 
avow  that  she  was  all  caprice  and  that  a  lover  must 
take  her  as  he  found  her.  "Besides,"  she  added, 
"what  does  it  matter  to  you?  you  shall  take  me 
there." 

"For  this  evening,"  he  said,  "it  would  be  diffi- 
cult, I  am  not  suitably  dressed." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  she  replied  looking  at  him 
haughtily,  "that  if  anyone  would  suffer  for  your 
dress  it  would  be  I.  But  know.  Monsieur,  the  trav- 
eler, that  the  man  whose  arm  I  accept  is  always 
above  fashion,  no  one  will  dare  to  criticise  him. 
1  see  that  you  do  not  know  the  world;  I  like  you  the 
better  for  it." 

And  she  was  already  dragging  him  into  the  petti- 
nesses of  the  world,  in  endeavoring  to  initiate  him 
into  the  vanities  of  a  woman  of  fashion. 

"If  she  chooses  to  commit  a  folly  for  me,"  Ar- 
mand  said  to  himself,  "I  should  be  a  great  fool 
to  prevent  her.      She  undoubtedly  likes  me,  and 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  287 

certainly  she  cannot  despise  the  world  more  than 
I  despise  it  myself;  so  here  goes  for  the  ball !  " 

The  duchess  doubtless  was  thinking  that  when 
the  general  was  seen  following  her  to  the  ball  in 
boots  and  a  black  cravat  no  one  would  hesitate  to 
believe  him  passionately  in  love  with  her.  The 
general,  on  the  other  hand,  delighted  to  see  the 
queen  of  the  elegant  world  willing  to  compromise 
herself  for  him,  found  his  wit  rising  with  his  hopes. 
Conscious  that  he  pleased,  he  displayed  his  ideas 
and  his  feelings  without  experiencing  the  constraint 
that  had  troubled  his  heart  the  night  before.  This 
genuine  conversation,  animated,  filled  with  those 
first  confidences  as  pleasant  to  utter  as  to  hear,  did 
it  really  charm  Madame  de  Langeais,  or  had  she 
planned  this  delightful  coquetry;  nevertheless, 
when  midnight  sounded,  she  glanced  mischievously 
at  the  clock. 

"Ah!  you  are  making  me  lose  the  ball!"  she 
said  with  an  expression  of  surprise  and  of  vexation 
at  having  forgotten  herself. 

Then  she  justified  to  herself  the  exchange  of  her 
pleasures  by  a  smile  which  made  Armand's  heart 
leap. 

"I  certainly  did  promise  Madame  de  Beauseant," 
she  added.     "They  are  all  expecting  me." 

"Well  then,  let  us  go." 

"No,  go  on,"  she  said.  "I  shall  stay  here.  Your 
adventures  in  the  East  charm  me.  Tell  me  all 
your  life.  I  love  to  share  the  sufferings  of  a  brave 
man,  for  I  do  feel  them,  truly!  " 


288  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

She  played  with  her  scarf,  twisting  it,  tearing  it 
by  impatient  movements  which  seemed  to  express 
some  inward  discontentment  and  serious  thought 

"We  are  worth  nothing,  we  women,"  she  re- 
sumed. "Ah!  we  are  unworthy  beings,  selfish, 
frivolous.  All  we  know  is  how  to  weary  ourselves 
with  amusement.  Not  one  of  us  comprehends  the 
role  of  her  life.  Formerly,  in  France,  women  were 
beneficent  lights,  they  lived  to  comfort  those  who 
weep,  to  encourage  the  great  virtues,  to  reward 
artists  and  animate  their  life  by  noble  thoughts.  If 
the  world  has  become  so  little,  the  fault  is  ours. 
You  make  me  hate  this  world  and  the  ball.  No,  I 
have  not  sacrificed  much  to  you." 

She  ended  by  destroying  her  scarf,  like  a  child 
who,  playing  with  a  flower,  finishes  by  tearing  off 
all  the  petals;  then  rolling  it  up  she  threw  it  from 
her,  thus  disclosing  her  swan-like  neck.  She  rang 
the  bell. 

"I  shall  not  go  out,"  she  said  to  her  valet  de 
chambre. 

Then  she  turned  her  long  blue  eyes  on  Armand 
timidly  so  as  to  make  him  accept  by  the  fear 
which  they  expressed,  this  order  as  an  avowal,  as 
a  first,  as  a  great  favor. 

"You  have  had  many  sufferings,"  she  said  after 
a  pause  full  of  thought  and  with  that  tenderness 
which  is  often  in  the  voice  of  a  woman  when  it  is 
not  in  her  heart. 

"No,"  answered  Armand.  "Until  to-day  I  did 
not  know  what  happiness  was." 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  289 

"You  know  it  then  ?  "  said  she,  looking  up  at  him 
with  a  hypocritical  and  subtle  air. 

"But  happiness  for  me  henceforth,  will  it  not  be 
to  see  you,  to  listen  to  you? — Up  to  the  present 
time,  I  have  only  suffered,  and  now  I  comprehend 
that  I  may  be  unhappy — " 

"Enough,  enough,"  she  cried,  "now  go,  it  is 
midnight,  let  us  respect  the  proprieties.  I  did  not 
go  to  the  ball,  but  you  were  there.  Let  us  not  give 
occasion  for  gossip.  Adieu.  I  do  not  know  what  I 
shall  say,  but  the  headache  is  a  good  person  and 
never  contradicts  us." 

"Is  there   a  ball  to-morrow?  "  he  asked. 

"You  will  get  accustomed  to  them,  I  think. 
Well,  yes,  to-morrow  we  will  go  to  another  ball." 

Armand  went  away  the  happiest  man  on  earth; 
and  he  returned  every  evening  to  Madame  de  Lan- 
geais  at  the  hour  which,  by  a  sort  of  tacit  under- 
standing, was  reserved  for  him.  It  would  be  tedious, 
and  for  those  numerous  young  people  who  have  so 
many  of  these  beautiful  souvenirs  superfluous,  to 
make  this  recital  advance  step  by  step  as  did  the 
poem  of  these  hidden  conversations,  the  course  of 
which  checked  or  widened  at  a  woman's  pleasure 
by  a  dispute  over  words  when  the  sentiment  went 
too  far,  by  a  complaint  of  the  sentiment  when  words 
would  not  answer  to  her  thought.  To  mark  the 
progress  of  this  Penelope's  web,  perhaps  it  would 
be  better  to  restrict  ourselves  to  the  material  gains 
which  the  sentiment  was  allovved  to  make.  Thus, 
a  few  days  after  the  first  meeting  of  the  duchess 
19 


290  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

and  Armand  de  Montriveau,  the  assiduous  general 
had  conquered  in  all  propriety  the  right  to  kiss  the 
insatiable  hands  of  his  mistress.  Wherever  Madame 
de  Langeais  appeared  Monsieur  de  Montriveau  was 
certain  to  be  seen  also,  so  that  certain  people  called 
him  in  jest  "the  orderly  of  the  Duchess."  Already 
his  position  had  brought  him  envy,  jealousy  and 
enemies.  Madame  de  Langeais  had  attained  her 
object.  The  marquis  was  confounded  with  her  nu- 
merous other  admirers,  and  he  served  her  to  humili- 
ate those  who  boasted  of  being  in  her  good  graces 
by  publicly  giving  him  the  precedence. 

"Decidedly,"  said  Madame  de  Serizy,  "Monsieur 
de  Montriveau  is  the  man  whom  the  duchess  most 
distinguishes," 

Who  does  not  know  what  this  expression  means 
in  Paris,  to  be  distinguished  by  a  woman?  The 
circumstances  were  thus  perfectly  well  regulated. 
The  stories  told  of  the  general  rendered  him  so 
redoubtable  that  the  clever  young  men  tacitly  aban- 
doned all  pretensions  to  the  duchess,  and  only  con- 
tinued to  revolve  in  her  sphere  that  they  might 
make  the  most  of  the  importance  it  lent  them,  use 
her  name,  her  reputation,  to  better  ingratiate  them- 
selves with  certain  powers  of  the  second  rank, 
delighted  to  carry  off  one  of  the  lovers  of  Madame 
de  Langeais.  The  duchess  had  quite  enough  per- 
spicacity to  perceive  all  these  desertions  and  these 
treaties,  of  which  her  pride  would  not  permit  her  to 
be  the  dupe.  And  she  knew  very  well,  as  Monsieur 
le  Prince  de  Talleyrand  who  was  much  in  love  with 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  29I 

her  said,  how  to  gather  an  aftermath  of  vengeance 
with  a  two-edged  scoff  at  such  morganatic  espousals. 
Her  disdainful  satire  contributed  not  a  little  to  the 
fear  she  inspired  and  to  her  reputation  for  keen  wit. 
She  thus  strengthened  her  reputation  for  virtue,  all 
the  while  entertaining  herself  with  the  secrets  of 
others  without  ever  permitting  her  own  to  be  pene- 
trated. Nevertheless,  after  two  months  of  this 
assiduity  she  began  to  feel  in  the  depths  of  her  heart 
a  vague  fear  as  she  saw  that  Monsieur  de  Montri- 
veau  comprehended  nothing  of  the  refinements  of 
the  coquetry  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  and 
took  quite  seriously  the  pretty  little  Parisian  ways. 
"My  dear  duchess,"  the  old  Vidame  de  Pamiers 
said  to  her  one  day,  "your  friend  is  first  cousin  to 
the  eagles,  you  will  never  tame  him,  and  he  will 
carry  you  off  to  his  eyrie  some  day  if  you  do  not 
take  care." 


* 

The  day  after  the  evening  in  which  the  worldly- 
wise  old  man  had  made  her  this  speech,  which 
Madame  de  Langeais  feared  was  only  too  prophetic, 
she  began  a  serious  effort  to  make  herself  hated, 
and  showed  herself  hard,  exacting,  fidgety,  detest- 
able, to  Armand,  who  disarmed  her  by  an  angelic 
mildness.  This  woman  knew  so  little  of  the  great 
kindness  of  noble  natures  that  she  was  touched  and 
surprised  by  the  courteous  pleasantries  with  which 
her  ill-humor  was  at  first  met.  She  was  seeking  a 
quarrel,  and  found  only  fresh  proofs  of  affection. 
Nevertheless  she  persisted. 

"In  what  respect,"  said  Armand  to  her,  "has  a 
man  who  idolizes  you  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  dis- 
please you? " 

"You  don't  displease  me,"  she  replied,  becoming 
suddenly  sweet  and  submissive;  "but  why  do  you 
wish  to  compromise  me?  You  can  only  be  d,  friend 
for  me.  Do  you  not  know  it?  I  would  wish  to  find 
in  you  the  instinct,  the  delicacy  of  true  friendship, 
so  that  I  need  not  be  forced  to  lose  either  your 
regard  or  the  pleasure  I  experience  when  near  you." 

"To  be  only  your  friend!"  cried  Monsieur  de 
Montriveau,  to  whom  this  terrible  word  was  like  an 
electric  shock.  "On  the  faith  of  all  those  sweet 
hours  which  you  have  granted  me  I  have  rested, 
and  1  thought  to  have  awakened  in  your  heart;  and 

(293) 


294  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

to-day,  without  motive,  you  take  gratuitous  pleas- 
ure in  killing  the  secret  hopes  by  which  I  live. 
After  having  made  me  promise  such  constancy  and 
after  showing  such  horror  of  women  who  have  only 
caprices,  do  you  wish  me  to  understand  that,  like 
all  the  other  women  of  Paris,  you  have  only  pas- 
sions and  no  love  ?  Why,  then,  have  you  asked  of 
me  my  life,  and  why  have  you  accepted  it? " 

"I  was  wrong,  my  friend.  Yes,  a  woman  is 
wrong  when  she  yields  to  such  intoxication  which 
she  has  neither  the  power  nor  the  right  to  reward." 

"I  understand,  you  have  only  been  a  little  co- 
quettish and — " 

"Coquettish  ?  I  hate  coquetry.  To  be  a  coquette, 
Armand,  is  to  promise  one's  self  to  many  men  and 
to  give  one's  self  to  none.  To  give  one's  self  to  all 
is  to  be  a  libertine.  That  is  how  I  understand  our 
ethics.  But  to  be  sad  with  the  melancholy,  gay 
with  the  careless,  politic  with  the  ambitious,  to 
listen  with  feigned  admiration  to  the  chatterers,  to 
be  military  with  the  soldiers,  to  grow  passionate  for 
the  good  of  the  country  with  the  philanthropists,  to 
give  to  each  his  little  dose  of  flattery,  all  this  seems 
to  me  as  necessary  as  to  put  flowers  in  our  hair,  as 
diamonds,  gloves  or  clothes.  Conversation  is  the 
moral  part  of  our  toilet;  we  put  it  on  and  take  it  off 
with  the  feathers  in  our  hair.  Do  you  call  that 
coquetry  ?  But  I  have  never  treated  you  as  1  have 
the  rest  of  the  world.  With  you,  my  friend,  I  am 
true.  I  have  not  always  agreed  with  your  ideas, 
and  when  you  have  convinced  me  after  a  discussion, 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  295 

have  you  not  seen  me  perfectly  happy  ?  In  fact  I 
love  you,  but  only  as  a  pure  and  religious  woman 
should  love.  I  have  been  thinking  over  it  I  am 
married,  Armand.  If  the  terms  on  which  I  live 
with  Monsieur  de  Langeais  leave  me  free  to  dispose 
of  my  heart  as  I  please,  the  laws,  the  conventions 
of  society  have  taken  from  me  the  right  to  dispose 
of  my  person.  In  whatever  rank  a  woman  is  placed, 
a  dishonored  woman  is  driven  from  society,  and  I 
have  never  yet  seen  the  man  who  could  understand 
the  full  meaning  of  our  sacrifices.  Even  more,  the 
rupture  which  everyone  foresees  between  Madame 
de  Beauseant  and  Monsieur  d'Ajuda  who,  they  say, 
is  going  to  marry  Mademoiselle  de  Rochefide,  proves 
to  me  that  these  same  sacrifices  are  almost  always 
the  reasons  of  men  abandoning  us.  If  you  love  me 
sincerely  you  will  cease  to  see  me,  at  least  for  some 
time!  For  you  I  lay  aside  all  vanity;  is  not  that 
something?  What  does  the  world  not  say  of  a  wo- 
man to  whom  no  man  is  attached  ?  That  she  has 
no  heart,  no  mind,  no  soul,  and  above  all  no  charm. 
Oh !  the  coquettes  will  not  spare  me,  they  will  take 
away  from  me  all  the  qualities  which  they  have 
been  offended  at  finding  in  me.  So  long  as  I  pre- 
serve my  reputation,  what  does  it  matter  to  me  to 
see  the  contest  of  my  rivals  for  my  advantages? — 
They  certainly  will  not  inherit  it.  Come,  my 
friend,  give  something  to  one  who  sacrifices  so  much 
for  you!  Call  on  me  less  often,  I  will  not  love  you 
the  less  for  it." 

"Ah!"  replied  Armand  with  the  profound  irony 


296  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

of  a  wounded  heart,  "love,  according  to  the  scrib- 
blers, is  fed  only  on  illusions!  Nothing  is  more 
true,  1  see  it,  I  am  to  imagine  myself  loved.  But 
truly,  there  are  thoughts  like  wounds  from  which 
there  is  no  recovery:  You  were  one  of  my  last 
beliefs,  and  I  now  see  that  all  things  here  below 
are  false." 

She  smiled. 

"Yes,"  continued  Montriveau  in  an  altered  voice, 
"your  Catholic  faith  to  which  you  have  tried  to 
convert  me  is  a  lie  that  men  make  to  themselves, 
hope  is  a  lie  based  upon  the  future,  pride  is  a  lie 
between  us;  pity,  wisdom,  fear  are  all  lying  calcu- 
lations. My  happiness  is  then  also  to  be  a  lie,  I 
am  to  cheat  myself  and  consent  to  give  forever  gold 
for  silver.  If  you  can  so  easily  dispense  with  my 
presence,  if  you  will  acknowledge  me  neither  for 
your  friend  nor  your  lover,  you  do  not  love  me! 
And  I,  poor  fool,  I  say  this  to  myself,  I  know  it, 
and  I  love  you!  " 

"But,  Mon  Dieu!  my  poor  Armand,  how  you  go 
to  extremes." 

"To  extremes  ? " 

"Yes,  you  think  that  everything  is  at  an  end 
because  I  speak  to  you  of  prudence." 

In  her  heart  she  was  enchanted  with  the  anger 
that  overflowed  in  her  lover's  eyes.  At  this  mo- 
ment she  was  tormenting  him;  but  at  the  same 
time  she  judged  him,  and  noticed  every  alteration 
in  his  countenance.  Had  the  general  been  so  un- 
fortunate   as    to    show   himself  generous   without 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  297 

discussion,  as  sometimes  happens  to  these  candid 
souls,  he  would  have  been  banished  forever,  im- 
peached and  convicted  of  not  knowing  how  to  love. 
The  greater  number  of  women  like  to  feel  their 
moral  convictions  violated.  Is  it  not  one  of  their 
flatteries  to  yield  only  to  superior  force?  But 
Armand  was  not  wise  enough  to  perceive  the  net 
skilfully  spread  for  him  by  the  duchess.  Strong 
men  who  love  have  so  much  of  the  child  in  their 
souls! 

"If  you  only  wish  to  keep  up  appearances,"  he 
said  artlessly,  "I  am  ready  to — " 

"Keep  up  appearances !"  she  cried,  interrupting 
him ;  "what  sort  of  ideas  do  you  have  of  me  ?  Have 
I  given  you  the  smallest  reason  to  think  I  could  ever 
be  yours?" 

"Ah,  then,  what  are  we  talking  about?"  de- 
manded Montriveau. 

"But,  Monsieur,  you  frighten  me — No,  pardon, 
thank  you,"  she  continued  in  a  freezing  tone, 
"thank  you  Armand,— you  call  my  attention  in 
time  to  an  imprudence  quite  involuntary,  believe 
it,  my  friend.  You  know  how  to  suffer,  you  say! 
I  also,  I  will  learn  how  to  suffer.  We  will  cease  to 
see  each  other;  and  then,  when  we  have  both 
recovered  some  calmness,  well,  then  we  will  try  to 
arrange  for  ourselves  some  sort  of  happiness  ap- 
proved by  the  world.  I  am  young,  Armand,  a  man 
without  delicacy  might  do  many  things  to  compro- 
mise a  woman  of  twenty-four.  But,  you!  you  will 
always  be  my  friend — promise  me." 


298  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

"The  woman  of  twenty-four,"  he  replied,  "is 
old  enough  to  calculate." 

He  sat  down  on  the  divan  of  the  boudoir  and  held 
his  head  between  his  hands. 

"Do  you  love  me,  Madame?"  he  demanded  lifting 
his  head  and  showing  a  face  full  of  resolution. 
"Answer  fearlessly,  yes  or  no!  " 

The  duchess  was  more  frightened  by  this  inter- 
rogation than  she  would  have  been  by  a  threat  of 
death,— a  common  trick  which  easily  frightens 
women  of  the  nineteenth  century  who  no  longer  see 
men  wearing  their  swords  by  their  sides;  but  are 
there  not  effects  of  the  eye-lashes,  the  eyebrows, 
contractions  in  the  look,  tremblings  of  the  lips, 
which  communicate  the  fear  which  they  express  so 
keenly,  so  magnetically? 

"Ah !  "  she  said,  "if  I  were  free,  if—" 

"Eh!  is  it  only  your  husband  that  is  in  the 
way?"  cried  the  general  joyfully,  walking  with 
great  strides  up  and  down  the  boudoir.  "My  dear 
Antoinette,  I  possess  a  more  absolute  power  than 
that  of  the  autocrat  of  all  the  Russias.  I  am  on 
good  terms  with  fate:  I  can,  socially  speaking,  ad- 
vance it  or  put  it  back  at  my  will  like  the  hands  of 
a  watch.  To  guide  fate  in  our  political  machine, 
is  it  not  simply  to  know  the  mechanism  ?  In  a  little 
while  you  will  be  free,  remember  then  your  prom- 
ise. ' ' 

"Armand, "  she  cried,  "what  do  you  mean? 
Good  God!  Do  you  think  that  I  could  be  the 
reward  of  a  crime?  do  you  wish  my  death?     Have 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  299 

you  no  religion  at  all?  For  myself,  I  fear  God. 
Although  Monsieur  de  Langeais  has  given  me  the 
right  to  hate  him,  I  wish  him  no  ill." 

Monsieur  de  Montriveau,  who  was  beating  a  tattoo 
mechanically  with  his  fingers  on  the  marble  of  the 
chimney-piece,  contented  himself  by  looking  at  the 
duchess  with  a  calm  air. 

"  My  friend, "  she  said,  continuing,  "respect  him. 
He  does  not  love  me,  he  has  not  been  good  to  me, 
but  I  have  duties  to  fulfil  towards  him.  To  spare 
him  the  misfortunes  with  which  you  threaten  him, 
what  would  I  not  do? — Listen,"  she  resumed  after 
a  pause,  "I  will  not  talk  to  you  any  more  of  separa- 
tion, you  shall  come  here  as  in  the  past,  I  will 
always  offer  you  my  forehead  to  kiss;  if  I  refused 
it  sometimes  it  was  pure  coquetry,  in  truth.  But 
let  us  understand  each  other,"  she  said,  seeing  him 
approach.  "You  will  permit  me  to  increase  the 
number  of  my  followers,  to  receive  them  in  the 
morning  even  more  than  I  have  been  doing, — I  will 
increase  my  frivolities,  I  will  treat  you  very  badly 
in  appearance,  and  feign  a  rupture;  you  will  come 
a  little  less  often;  and  then,  afterwards — " 

As  she  said  these  words  she  permitted  him  to 
pass  his  arm  around  her  and  seemed  to  feel,  thus 
pressed  in  his  embrace,  the  excessive  pleasure 
which  most  women  find  in  this  pressure,  in  which 
all  the  enjoyments  of  love  seem  to  be  promised; 
then  she  doubtless  wished  to  inspire  some  confi- 
dence, for  she  stood  on  tiptoe  to  bring  her  forehead 
under  the  burning  lips  of  Armand. 


3CXD  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

"Afterwards,"  resumed  Montriveau,  "you  will 
talk  to  me  no  more  of  your  husband;  you  ought  not 
even  to  think  of  him." 

Madame  de  Langeais  kept  silence. 

"At  least,"  she  said  after  an  expressive  pause, 
"you  will  do  all  that  I  ask  of  you,  without  grum- 
bling, without  being  wicked,  will  you  not,  my 
friend?  You  only  wished  to  frighten  me?  Come, 
confess  it! — you  are  too  good  to  ever  entertain 
criminal  thoughts.  But  have  you  then  secrets  that 
1  know  nothing  of?  What  do  you  mean  by  controll- 
ing fate? " 

"The  moment,  when  you  confirm  the  gift  that 
you  have  already  made  me  of  your  heart,  I  am  too 
happy  to  know  well  how  I  should  answer  you.  I 
have  confidence  in  you,  Antoinette,  I  shall  have  no 
doubts,  no  false  jealousies.  But  if  chance  should 
^   set  you  at  liberty,  we  are  united — " 

"Chance,  Armand,"  she  said,  making  one  of 
those  pretty  gestures  of  the  head  which  seem  to 
mean  so  many  things  and  which  this  species  of 
women  dispense  so  lightly,  as  a  cantatrice  plays 
with  her  voice.  "Pure  chance,"  she  resumed. 
"Understand  it  well;  if  through  you  any  misfor- 
tune happens  to  Monsieur  de  Langeais,  I  will  never 
be  yours." 

They  parted  mutually  satisfied.  The  duchess 
had  made  a  compact  which  would  permit  her  to 
prove  to  all  the  world  by  her  words  and  her  actions 
that  Monsieur  de  Montriveau  was  not  her  lover. 
As  for  him,  the  wily  creature  purposed  to  tire  him 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  3OI 

out  by  granting  no  other  favors  than  those  snatched 
in  those  little  quarrels  which  she  could  arrest  as  she 
pleased.  She  knew  so  prettily  how  to  revoke  on 
the  morrow  a  concession  granted  the  night  before, 
she  was  so  seriously  determined  to  remain  physic- 
ally virtuous,  that  she  saw  no  risk  to  herself  in 
these  preliminaries,  dangerous  only  to  women 
really  in  love.  In  fact,  a  duchess  separated  from 
her  husband  offered  but  little  to  love,  in  sacrificing 
to  it  a  marriage  that  had  long  been  annulled.  On 
his  side,  Montriveau,  quite  happy  in  having  ob- 
tained the  vaguest  of  promises,  and  of  having  put 
aside  forever  the  objections  that  a  wife  could  find 
in  conjugal  faith  for  refusing  love,  congratulated 
himself  on  having  conquered  a  little  more  ground. 
Thus  for  some  time  he  abused  those  rights  of  enjoy- 
ment which  had  been  so  reluctantly  granted  him. 
More  childlike  than  he  had  ever  yet  been,  this  man 
gave  himself  up  to  all  those  childish  delights  which 
make  a  first  love  the  flower  of  our  life.  He  became 
a  child  again  in  pouring  out  his  soul  and  all  the 
cheated  energies  which  his  passion  communicated, 
upon  the  hands  of  this  woman,  upon  her  blonde 
hair  whose  wavy  curls  he  kissed,  upon  that  dazzling 
forehead  which  seemed  to  him  so  pure.  Inundated 
with  love,  vanquished  by  the  magnetic  outflowings 
of  so  warm  a  sentiment,  the  duchess  hesitated  to 
begin  the  quarrel  which  should  separate  them  for- 
ever. She  was  more  of  a  woman  than  she  thought 
herself,  this  fragile  creature,  striving  to  reconcile 
the  claims  of  religion  with  the  lively  emotions  of 


302  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

vanity,  with  those  semblances  of  pleasure  upon 
which  the  Parisians  dote.  Every  Sunday  she  heard 
Mass,  not  missing  one  of  the  Offices  of  the  Church; 
every  evening  she  plunged  into  the  intoxicating 
voluptuousness  which  flows  from  desires  ceaselessly 
repressed.  Armand  and  Madame  de  Langeais  re- 
sembled those  fakirs  of  India  who  are  rewarded  for 
their  chastity  by  the  temptations  it  offers  them. 
Perhaps  also  the  duchess  had  come  to  persuade 
herself  that  all  love  might  be  resolved  into  these 
fraternal  caresses,  which  would  doubtless  have 
appeared  innocent  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  but  to 
which  the  fearlessness  of  her  thoughts  lent  an 
excessive  depravation.  How  else  explain  the  in- 
comprehensible mystery  of  her  perpetual  fluctua- 
tions? Every  morning  she  resolved  to  close  her 
doors  to  the  Marquis  de  Montriveau;  every  evening 
at  the  appointed  hour  she  allowed  herself  to  be 
charmed  by  him.  After  a  feeble  defence  she  would 
become  less  forbidding;  her  conversation  became 
sweet  and  gracious;  two  lovers  only  could  be  thus. 
The  duchess  displayed  her  most  sparkling  wit,  her 
most  charming  coquetries;  then,  when  she  had  irri- 
tated the  soul  and  the  senses  of  her  lover,  if  he 
seized  her,  she  would  have  been  quite  willing  to 
have  allowed  herself  to  be  broken  and  tormented  by 
him,  but  she  had  her  ne  plus  ultra  of  passion ;  and 
when  he  had  reached  this  limit  she  always  became 
offended  if,  mastered  by  his  passion,  he  threatened 
to  pass  the  barriers.  But  no  woman  will  dare  to 
deny  herself  to  love  without  a  reason,  nothing  is 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  303 

more  natural  than  to  yield;  so  Madame  de  Langeais 
soon  surrounded  herself  by  a  second  line  of  fortifi- 
cations, more  difficult  to  carry  than  the  first.  She 
invoked  the  terrors  of  religion.  Never  did  the  most 
eloquent  father  of  the  church  plead  better  the  com- 
mands of  God ;  never  was  the  vengeance  of  the 
Most  High  better  proclaimed  than  by  the  voice  of 
the  duchess.  She  employed  neither  the  phraseology 
of  sermons  nor  the  amplifications  of  rhetoric.  No, 
she  had  her  own  pathos.  To  Armand's  most  ardent 
supplications  she  replied  by  a  tearful  glance,  by  a 
gesture  that  revealed  a  frightful  fulness  of  senti- 
ment; she  silenced  him  by  imploring  mercy;  a  word 
more,  she  would  not  hear  it,  she  would  succumb, 
and  death  seemed  to  her  preferable  to  a  criminal 
happiness. 

"Is  it  then  nothing  to  disobey  God!  "  she  would 
say  to  him,  recovering  her  voice  made  feeble  by 
the  inward  conflicts  over  which  this  pretty  come- 
dienne seemed  to  secure  with  difficulty  a  temporary 
mastery.  "Men,  the  whole  world,  I  would  gladly 
sacrifice  for  you ;  but  you  are  very  selfish  to  ask  of 
me  my  whole  future  in  return  for  a  moment  of 
pleasure.  Come,  see,  now  are  you  not  happy?" 
she  added  offering  him  her  hand  and  revealing  her- 
self to  him  in  a  neglige  which  certainly  offered 
to  her  lover  some  consolations  of  which  he  always 
availed  himself. 

If  to  retain  a  man  whose  ardent  passion  gave  her 
some  unaccustomed  emotions  or  if  through  weak- 
ness,  she  permitted   him  to  snatch  a  rapid  kiss, 


304  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

immediately  she  feigned  terror,  she  blushed  and 
banished  Armand  from  the  sofa  at  the  moment  when 
the  sofa  became  dangerous  for  her. 

"Your  pleasures  are  sins  that  I  must  expiate, 
Armand;  they  cost  me  penitences,  remorse,"  she 
cried. 

When  Montriveau  found  himself  two  chairs  away 
from  these  aristocratic  petticoats,  he  took  to  blas- 
phemy, he  cursed  God.  Then  the  duchess  grew 
angry. 

"But,  my  friend,"  she  said  severely,  "I  cannot 
understand  why  you  refuse  to  believe  in  God,  for 
it  certainly  is  impossible  to  believe  in  men.  Be 
silent,  do  not  speak  in  that  manner ;  your  soul  is 
too  noble  to  espouse  the  follies  of  liberalism  which 
pretend  to  do  away  with  God." 

Discussions,  theological  and  political,  served  her 
as  douches  to  calm  Montriveau,  who  knew  no  longer 
how  to  be  reconciled  to  love  when  she  excited  his 
anger  by  casting  him  a  thousand  leagues  away  from 
this  boudoir  into  theories  of  absolutism  which  she 
defended  admirably.  Few  women  dare  to  be  dem- 
ocratic, they  are  then  too  much  in  contradiction 
to  their  own  despotism  in  matters  of  sentiment. 
But  sometimes  also  the  general  shook  his  mane, 
ignored  politics,  growled  like  a  lion,  lashed  his 
flanks,  threw  himself  on  his  prey,  became  again 
terrible  from  love  of  his  mistress,  incapable  of  curb- 
ing longer  his  evident  thought  and  love.  If  this 
woman  then  felt  within  her  the  movings  of  some 
fancy  strong  enough  to  compromise  her,  she  was 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  305 

discreet  enough  to  quit  her  boudoir, — she  left  the 
atmosphere  so  charged  with  desire  which  she  there 
breathed,  went  into  her  salon,  seated  herself  at  the 
piano  and  began  to  sing  the  sweetest  airs  of  modern 
music,  and  thus  deceived  the  love  of  the  senses 
which  sometimes  did  not  spare  her,  but  which  she 
had  strength  to  overcome.  At  such  moments,  she 
was  sublime  in  Armand's  eyes;  she  did  not  feign, 
she  was  true,  and  the  poor  lover  thought  himself 
beloved.  This  egotistic  resistance  caused  him  to 
take  her  for  a  saintly  and  virtuous  creature,  and  he 
resigned  himself,  and  he  talked  of  platonic  love, — 
he,  General  of  Artillery!  When  she  had  played 
religion  long  enough  in  her  own  interest  Madame  de 
Langeais  played  it  over  again  in  his;  she  endeav- 
ored to  bring  him  back  to  Christian  sentiments, 
she  remodeled  the  Genius  of  Christianity  for  mili- 
tary purposes.  Montriveau  grew  impatient,  found 
his  yoke  heavy.  Oh !  then  in  a  spirit  of  contradic- 
tion, she  flung  at  him  the  terrors  of  God,  to  see  if 
God  would  relieve  her  of  a  man  who  held  to  his 
purpose  with  a  constancy  which  began  to  frighten 
her.  Moreover,  she  wished  to  prolong  every  quar- 
rel which  might  promise  to  lengthen  out  indefinitely 
the  moral  struggle,  after  which  would  come  the  ma- 
terial struggle,  much  more  dangerous. 


20 


If  the  opposition  made  in  the  name  of  the  mar- 
riage laws  represented  the  civil  epoch  of  this  senti- 
mental war,  the  present  struggle  constituted  the 
religions  epoch,  and  it  had,  like  its  predecessor,  a 
crisis  after  which  its  fury  must  abate.  One  even- 
ing Armand  arriving  accidentally  at  a  very  early 
hour  found  Monsieur  I'Abbe  Gondrand,  the  director 
of  the  conscience  of  Madame  de  Langeais,  estab- 
lished in  an  arm-chair  in  the  chimney-corner  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  was  comfortably  digesting  his 
dinner  and  the  pretty  sins  of  his  penitent.  The 
sight  of  this  man,  with  his  fresh  and  placid  counte- 
nance, whose  forehead  was  calm,  his  mouth  ascetic, 
his  glance  somewhat  maliciously  inquisitorial,  who 
had  in  his  bearing  a  true  ecclesiastical  dignity  and 
already  in  his  vestments  the  Episcopal  purple, 
caused  the  face  of  Montriveau  to  darken  singularly; 
he  bowed  to  no  one  and  kept  silence.  Outside  of 
his  love  the  general  was  not  wanting  in  judgment, 
he  guessed  therefore,  in  exchanging  some  glances 
with  the  future  bishop,  that  this  man  promoted  the 
difficulties  with  which  the  duchess  fenced  about  her 
love  for  him.  That  an  ambitious  abbe  should  play 
fast  and  loose  and  restrain  the  love  of  a  man  tem- 
pered as  he  had  been,  this  thought  brought  the  blood 
to  Montriveau's  face,  clenched  his  hands,  made  him 
rise,  walk  about  the  room,  stamp  about;  but  when 

(307) 


308  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

he  returned  to  his  seat  resolved  to  give  open  vent 
to  his  feelings,  a  single  look  from  the  duchess  sufficed 
to  calm  him.  Madame  de  Langeais,  in  no  wise  dis- 
turbed by  the  black  silence  of  her  lover,  which 
would  have  embarrassed  any  other  woman,  con- 
tinued to  converse  very  intelligently  with  Monsieur 
Gondrand  on  the  necessity  of  reestablishing 
religion  in  all  its  ancient  splendor.  She  demon- 
strated much  more  cleverly  than  the  abbe  could 
have  done,  the  reasons  why  the  Church  should  be 
a  power  at  once  temporal  and  spiritual  and  regretted 
that  the  Chamber  of  Peers  had  not  yet  its  Bench 
of  Bishops,  as  the  English  House  of  Lords  had. 
However,  the  abbe,  knowing  that  Lent  would  soon 
give  him  his  revenge,  yielded  his  place  to  the  gen- 
eral and  went  away.  The  duchess  scarcely  rose  to 
acknowledge  the  humble  bow  of  her  director,  so 
occupied  was  she  in  watching  Montriveau's 
behavior. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  friend?" 

"Your  abbe  turns  my  stomach." 

"Why  did  you  not  take  a  book.!*"  she  said  with- 
out caring  whether  the  abbe  who  was  just  closing 
the  door,  heard  her  or  not. 

Montriveau  remained  silent  a  moment,  for  the 
duchess  accompanied  her  speech  with  a  gesture 
which  added  to  its  excessive  impertinence. 

"My  dear  Antoinette,  I  thank  you  for  giving  pre- 
cedence to  love  over  the  Church ;  but  I  beg  you  will 
permit  me  to  ask  you  one  question." 

"Ah!    you  ask  me  questions.     Very  well,"  she 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  309 

replied.  "Are  you  not  my  friend?  I  can  certainly 
show  you  the  depths  of  my  heart.  You  will  find 
but  one  image  there." 

"Have  you  spoken  to  that  man  of  our  love.?" 

"He  is  my  confessor." 

"Does  he  know  that  I  love  you  ?  " 

"Monsieur  de  Montriveau,  you  surely  do  not  pre- 
sume to  wish  to  penetrate  the  secrets  of  my  confes- 
sion? " 

"Then  that  man  knows  all  our  quarrels  and  my 
love  for  you? — " 

"A  man,  Monsieur! — say  God!" 

"God!  God!  I  should  be  alone  in  your  heart. 
But  leave  God  alone,  there  wherever  He  is,  for  the 
love  of  Him  and  of  me.  Madame,  you  shall  not  go 
any  more  to  confession,  or — " 

"Or?"  she  said  smiling. 

"Or  I  will  never  come  here  again." 

"Go,  Armand.     Adieu,  adieu  forever. " 

She  rose  and  went  into  her  boudoir,  without  cast- 
ing a  single  glance  at  Montriveau,  who  remained 
standing,  his  hand  resting  on  the  back  of  a  chair. 
How  long  he  stood  there  he  never  knew  himself. 
The  soul  has  the  mysterious  power  of  extending  as 
of  contracting  space. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  boudoir,  all  was  dark 
within.  A  feeble  voice  gathered  strength  to  say 
sharply: 

"I  did  not  ring.  Besides,  why  do  you  enter  with- 
out orders?     Suzette,  leave  me. " 

"You  are  suffering?"  cried  Montriveau. 


3IO  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

"Remove  yourself,  Monsieur,"  she  cried,  ringing, 
"and  go  away  from  here,  at  least  for  a  moment." 

"Madame  la  Duchesse  rang  for  lights,"  he  said 
to  the  valet  de  chambre,  who  came  into  the  boudoir 
and  lighted  the  candles. 

When  the  two  lovers  were  alone  Madame  de  Lan- 
geais  remained  reclining  on  her  divan,  silent, 
motionless,  precisely  as  if  Montriveau  were  not 
there. 

"Dear,"  he  said  with  an  accent  of  pain  and  ten- 
der kindness,  "I  was  wrong.  I  certainly  would  not 
have  you  without  religion — " 

"It  is  fortunate,"  she  replied  in  a  hard  voice, 
without  looking  at  him,  "that  you  recognize  the 
necessity  of  conscience.     I  thank  you,  for  God." 

At  this  the  general,  withered  by  the  inclemency 
of  this  woman,  who  knew  so  well  how  to  become  at 
will  a  perfect  stranger  or  a  sister  for  him,  made  a 
step  toward  the  door  in  despair,  and  was  about  to 
abandon  her  forever  without  speaking  a  single 
word.  He  suffered,  and  the  duchess  in  her  heart 
was  laughing  at  sufferings  caused  by  a  moral  torture 
much  more  cruel  than  was  in  old  times  the  judicial 
torture.  But  this  man  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  go. 
In  every  kind  of  crisis  a  woman  is,  if  we  may  say 
so,  pregnant  with  a  certain  quantity  of  words;  and 
when  she  has  not  uttered  them  she  experiences  the 
sensation  suggested  by  the  sight  of  an  unfinished 
thing.  Madame  de  Langeais,  who  had  not  spoken 
all  her  mind,  resumed: 

"We  have  not  the  same  convictions,  general,  I 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  31I 

am  pained  to  know  it.  It  would  be  terrible  for  a 
woman  not  to  believe  in  a  religion  which  allows  her 
to  love  beyond  the  grave.  I  put  aside  Christian 
sentiments,  you  cannot  understand  them.  Let  me 
speak  to  you  only  of  the  proprieties.  Would  you 
wish  to  deny  to  a  woman  of  the  Court  the  Holy 
Communion  when  it  is  customary  to  receive  it  at 
Easter?  but  it  is  necessary  nevertheless  to  know 
what  stand  to  take.  The  Liberals  will  not  kill  the 
religious  sentiment,  for  all  their  desire  to  do  so. 
Religion  will  always  be  a  political  necessity. 
Would  you  undertake  to  govern  a  nation  of  pure 
Rationalists?  Napoleon  did  not  dare,  he  persecuted 
the  Ideologists.  To  keep  the  people  from  reasoning, 
you  must  give  them  sentiments.  Let  us  accept 
therefore  the  Catholic  religion  with  all  its  conse- 
quences. If  we  wish  that  France  should  go  to 
Mass,  should  we  not  commence  by  going  there  our- 
selves? Religion,  Armand,  is  as  you  see  the  bond 
of  the  conservative  principles  which  enable  the  rich 
to  live  in  safety.  Religion  is  intimately  connected 
with  the  rights  of  property.  It  is  certainly  a  finer 
thing  to  lead  the  people  by  moral  ideas  than  by 
scaffolds,  as  in  the  days  of  the  Terror,  the  only 
means  that  your  detestable  Revolution  could  invent 
for  enforcing  submission.  The  priest  and  the  king, 
why,  they  are  you,  they  are  me,  they  are  the 
princess,  my  neighbor;  they  are,  in  a  word,  all  the 
interests  of  honest  people  personified.  Come,  my 
friend,  be  then  really  on  your  own  side,  you  who 
might  be  its  Sylla,  if  you  had  the  least  ambition. 


312  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

As  for  me  I  am  quite  ignorant  of  politics,  I  only 
reason  from  feeling;  but  I  know  enough,  neverthe- 
less, to  be  sure  that  society  will  be  upset  if  its  base 
is  to  be  called  in  question  at  every  moment — " 

"If  your  court,  your  government,  has  these  opin- 
ions, I  am  sorry  for  you,"  said  Montriveau.  "The 
Restoration,  Madame,  should  say  like  Catherine 
de  Medicis  when  she  thought  the  battle  of  Dreux 
was  lost, — 'Well,  then,  we  will  go  to  the  Protestant 
church.'  Now,  1815  is  your  battle  of  Dreux.  Like 
the  throne  of  those  days,  you  have  gained  it  in 
fact  but  lost  it  in  law.  Political  protestantism  is 
victorious  in  all  minds.  If  you  do  not  wish  to 
make  an  Edict  of  Nantes;  or  if,  making  it,  you 
revoke  it;  if  you  are  some  day  tried  and  convicted 
of  desiring  to  do  away  with  the  Charter,  which  is 
only  a  pledge  given  to  maintain  the  interests  of  the 
Revolution, — ^the  Revolution  will  rise  again  terri- 
ble, and  will  give  you  but  one  blow.  It  is  not  it 
that  will  leave  France;  it  is  its  very  soil.  Men 
allow  themselves  to  be  killed,  but  not  interests. — 
Eh !  my  God !  what  to  us  are  France,  the  throne, 
legitimacy,  the  world  itself?  They  are  but  idle 
tales  compared  with  my  happiness.  Reign,  or  be 
overthrown,  it  is  but  little  I  care.  Where  am  I 
then?" 

"My  friend,  you  are  in  the  boudoir  of  Madame  la 
Duchesse  de  Langeais. " 

"No,  no,  no  more  duchess,  no  more  de  Langeais,  I 
am  beside  my  dear  Antoinette!  " 

"Will  you  do  me  the  pleasure  to  stay  where  you 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  313 

are,"  said  she,    laughing  and  repelling  him,    but 
without  violence. 

"You  have  never  then  loved  me?"  he  said  in  a 
rage  which  flashed  from  his  eyes  like  lightning. 

"No,  my  friend." 

This  'no'  had  the  sound  of  a  'yes.' 

"I  am  a  great  fool,"  he  said,  kissing  the  hand  of 
this  terrible  queen  once  more  become  woman. — 
"Antoinette,"  he  resumed,  resting  his  head  upon 
her  feet,  "you  are  too  chastely  tender  to  tell  our 
happiness  to  anyone  in  the  world." 

"Ah!  you  are  indeed  a  great  fool,"  she  said,  ris- 
ing with  a  quick  and  graceful  movement.  And 
without  adding  a  word  she  fled  into  the  salon. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  her  ? "  asked  the  general, 
who  could  not  guess  the  power  of  the  disturbance 
that  his  burning  head  had  electrically  communi- 
cated from  the  feet  to  the  head  of  his  mistress. 

As  he  arrived  furious  in  the  salon  he  heard  celes- 
tial strains.  The  duchess  was  at  her  piano.  Men 
of  science  or  of  poetic  natures,  who  can  at  the  same 
time  comprehend  and  enjoy  without  reflection  injur- 
ing their  pleasure,  feel  that  the  notes  and  the 
phrases  of  music  are  the  intimate  instruments  of 
the  musician,  just  as  the  wood  or  the  brass  are 
those  of  the  performer.  For  them  there  exists  a 
music  apart  in  the  depths  of  the  double  expression 
of  this  sensual  language  of  souls.  Andiamo  mio 
ben  can  bring  tears  of  joy  or  piteous  laughter, 
according  to  the  singer.  Often,  here  and  there  in 
the  world,  a  young  girl  dying  under  the  weight  of 


314  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

/' 
/   a  hidden  grief,  a  man  whose  soul  vibrates  under  the 

strokes  of  a  passion,  tai<e  a  musical  theme  and 
become  reconciled  with  Heaven,  or  speak  with 
themselves  in  some  sublime  melody,  like  a  lost 
poem.  So,  now  the  general  at  this  moment  listened 
to  one  of  these  poems,  as  unknown  as  could  be  the 
solitary  complaint  of  a  bird  dying  without  compan- 
ions in  a  virgin  forest. 

''Mon  Dieu!  what  are  you  playing,?"  he  asked 
in  a  voice  of  emotion. 

"The  prelude  to  a  ballad  called,  I  think,  Fleuve 
dii  Tage." 

"I  did  not  know  that  there  could  be  such  music 
in  a  piano,"  he  said. 

"Ah!  my  friend,"  she  said,  giving  him  for  the 
first  time  the  glance  of  a  loving  woman,  "neither 
do  you  know  that  I  love  you,  that  you  make  me 
suffer  horribly,  and  that  I  must  indeed  find  a  way 
to  complain  without  being  too  well  understood; 
otherwise  1  should  be  yours. — But  you  see  nothing. " 

"And  you  will  not  make  me  happy!  " 

"Armand,  I  should  die  of  sorrow  the  next  day." 

The  general  left  her  brusquely,  but  when  he 
reached  the  street  he  wiped  away  two  tears  which 
he  had  had  the  strength  to  retain  till  then. 


* 

Religion  lasted  three  months.  At  the  end  of  that 
time,  the  duchess,  weary  of  her  repetitions,  deliv- 
ered, so  to  speak,  her  God  bound  hand  and  foot  to 
her  lover.  Perhaps  she  was  afraid  that  by  dint  of 
preaching  eternity  she  might  perpetuate  the  gen- 
eral's love  in  this  world  and  in  the  next.  For  the 
honor  of  this  woman  we  must  believe  that  she  was 
virgin  even  in  heart;  otherwise  her  conduct  would 
be  too  cruel.  As  yet  far  from  the  age  at  which  men 
and  women  both  find  themselves  too  near  the  limits 
of  the  future  to  lose  time  and  to  quibble  with  their 
enjoyments  she  was  doubtless  not  at  her  first  love, 
but  among  her  first  pleasures.  Without  experience 
whereby  to  compare  the  good  with  the  evil,  without 
the  knowledge  of  suffering  that  might  have  taught 
her  the  value  of  the  treasures  poured  at  her  feet, 
she  was  amusing  herself  with  them.  Ignorant  of 
the  delightful  splendors  of  light,  she  was  content  to 
remain  in  the  shadows.  Armand,  who  began  to 
comprehend  this  singular  condition,  trusted  in  the 
primary  instincts  of  nature.  He  reflected  every 
night,  as  he  left  Madame  de  Langeais,  that  no 
woman  could  accept  for  seven  months  the  devotion 
of  a  man  and  the  most  tender,  the  most  delicate, 
proofs  of  his  love,  or  yield  herself  to  the  superficial 
exigencies  of  a  passion  to  deceive  it  finally,  and  he 
patiently  awaited  the  summer  season,  confident  that 

(315) 


3l6  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

he  would  gather  the  fruit  in  its  prime.  He  perfectly 
understood  the  scruples  of  a  married  woman  and 
religious  scruples.  He  even  rejoiced  in  these  strug- 
gles. He  thought  the  duchess  chaste  where  she 
was  only  frightfully  coquettish ;  and  he  would  not 
have  had  her  otherwise.  He  liked  to  see  her  raise 
obstacles;  would  he  not  gradually  triumph  over 
them  all?  And  each  triumph,  would  it  not  augment 
the  slight  total  of  amorous  intimacies  long  with- 
held, then  conceded  by  her  with  all  the  semblance 
of  love?  But  he  had  so  well  tasted  and  appreciated 
all  those  slight  and  progressive  conquests  which 
satisfy  timid  lovers  that  they  had  become  habitual 
to  him.  In  the  matter  of  obstacles  he  had  only  his 
own  fears  to  overcome;  for  he  no  longer  saw  any 
hindrance  to  his  happiness  other  than  the  caprices 
of  the  one  who  allowed  him  to  call  her  Antoinette. 
He  resolved  therefore  to  demand  more,  to  demand 
everything.  Timid  as  a  lover  still  young  who  does 
not  dare  to  believe  in  the  lowering  of  his  idol,  he 
hesitated  long  and  passed  through  those  terrible 
reactions  of  the  heart,  those  clearly  formed  desires 
which  a  word  annihilates,  those  fixed  resolutions 
which  expire  at  the  threshold  of  the  door.  He 
despised  himself  for  not  having  strength  to  say  a 
word,  and  yet  he  did  not  say  it.  Nevertheless,  at 
last  one  evening  he  proceeded  in  a  sombre  melan- 
choly to  put  forth  the  rude  claims  to  his  illegally 
legitimate  rights.  The  duchess  did  not  wait  the 
request  of  her  slave  to  know  his  desire.  Is  a  man's 
desire   ever   secret?       Have    not  all   women   that 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  317 

intuitive  knowledge  of  certain  expressions  of  the 
physiognomy  ? 

"What,  would  you  cease  to  be  my  friend?"  she 
asked,  interrupting  him  at  the  first  word  and  cast- 
ing on  him  a  glance  made  lovelier  by  a  divine  flush 
which  flowed  like  a  new  blood  under  her  diaphanous 
skin.  "As  a  reward  for  my  generosity,  you  would 
dishonor  me.  Reflect  a  little.  I  have  myself 
reflected  much;  1  think  always  of  us.  There  is  an 
integrity  for  women  in  which  we  should  no  more 
make  default  than  you  should  fail  in  honor.  For 
myself,  I  could  not  deceive.  If  I  became  yours,  I 
could  no  longer  be  in  any  respect  the  wife  of  Mon- 
sieur de  Langeais.  You  exact  therefore  the  sacri- 
fice of  my  position,  of  my  rank,  of  my  life,  for  a 
doubtful  love  which  has  not  had  seven  months  of 
patience.  What !  already  you  would  wish  to  deprive 
me  of  the  free  disposition  of  myself?  No,  no,  do 
not  speak  to  me  thus.  No,  say  nothing  to  me.  I 
will  not,  I  can  not  listen  to  you." 

Here  Madame  de  Langeais  with  both  hands  put 
back  her  clusters  of  curls  that  heated  her  brow  and 
became  very  animated. 

"You  come  to  a  feeble  creature  with  well  defined 
calculations,  saying  to  yourself:  'She  will  talk  to 
me  of  her  husband  for  a  certain  length  of  time,  then 
of  God,  then  of  the  inevitable  consequences  of  love; 
but  I  will  use,  I  will  abuse  the  influence  which  I 
shall  have  acquired;  I  will  render  myself  necessary; 
I  shall  have  on  my  side  the  ties  of  habit,  the  ar- 
rangements recognized  by  the  public;  finally,  when 


3l8  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

the  world  shall  have  finished  by  accepting  our  liai- 
son, 1  shall  be  the  master  of  this  woman.'  Be 
frank,  these  are  your  thoughts — Ah!  you  cal- 
culate, and  you  call  that  love!  Fie!  you  are  in 
love,  ah!  I  really  believe  it!  You  desire  me,  and 
you  wish  to  have  me  for  your  mistress,  that  is  all. 
Well,  then,  no.  La  Duchesse  de  Langeais  will 
not  descend  so  low  as  that.  Let  the  artless  bour- 
geoises be  the  dupes  of  your  falsehood;  for 
myself,  I  never  shall.  Nothing  assures  me  of  your 
love.  You  speak  of  my  beauty,  I  may  become  ugly 
in  six  months,  like  the  dear  princess,  my  neighbor. 
You  are  charmed  with  my  wit,  with  my  grace; 
Mon  Dieu!  you  will  get  accustomed  to  them  just  as 
you  get  accustomed  to  pleasure.  Have  you  not 
already  made  a  habit  for  the  last  few  months  of  the 
favors  which  I  have  had  the  weakness  to  accord  you  } 
When  I  am  lost,  some  day,  you  will  give  me  no 
other  reason  for  your  change  than  the  decisive 
word:  'I  no  longer  love  you.'  Rank,  fortune,  honor, 
all  of  the  Duchesse  de  Langeais  will  be  swallowed 
up  in  a  hope  deceived.  I  shall  have  children  who 
will  bear  witness  to  my  shame,  and — .  But,"  she 
resumed  with  an  involuntary  gesture  of  impatience, 
"I  am  too  kind  to  explain  to  you  that  which  you 
know  better  than  I.  Come  now,  let  us  remain  as 
we  are.  I  am  too  happy  as  I  am  to  be  able  yet  to 
break  the  bonds  which  you  think  so  strong.  Is 
there  then  anything  so  very  heroic  in  coming  to  the 
Hotel  de  Langeais  to  pass  some  time  every  evening 
with  a  woman  whose    chatter  pleased  you,  with 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  319 

whom  you  amused  yourself  as  with  a  plaything? 
But  there  are  several  young  fops  who  come  to  see 
me  daily,  from  three  to  five  o'clock,  as  regularly  as 
you  come  in  the  evening.  They  are  then  very  gen- 
erous! I  laugh  at  them,  they  receive  very  tran- 
quilly my  caprices,  my  impertinences,  and  make 
me  laugh;  whilst  you,  you  to  whom  I  accord  the 
most  precious  treasures  of  my  soul,  you  wish  to 
ruin  me  and  cause  me  a  thousand  griefs.  Keep 
silence,  enough,  enough,"  she  said  seeing  him 
about  to  speak,  "you  have  neither  heart,  nor  soul, 
nor  delicacy.  I  know  what  you  wish  to  say  to  me. 
Well  then,  yes.  1  had  rather  appear  in  your  eyes 
as  a  woman  cold,  without  feeling,  without  devotion, 
without  a  heart  even,  than  to  appear  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world  as  a  common  woman,  than  to  be  con- 
demned to  eternal  suffering  after  having  been  con- 
demned to  your  pretended  pleasures,  which  would 
certainly  end  by  wearying  you.  Your  egotistical 
love  is  not  worth  so  many  sacrifices — " 

These  words  represent  very  imperfectly  those 
which  the  duchess  trilled  forth  with  the  lively 
prolixity  of  a  hand-organ.  Certainly  she  might 
have  talked  on  a  long  while,  the  poor  Armand 
offered  for  sole  reply  to  this  torrent  of  soft  phrases 
a  silence  teeming  with  painful  thoughts.  He  per- 
ceived for  the  first  time  the  coquetry  of  this  woman, 
and  instinctively  divined  that  a  devoted  love,  love 
shared  with  another,  did  not  calculate,  did  not 
reason  thus  in  the  heart  of  a  true  woman.  Then 
he  experienced  a  sort  of  shame  as  he  remembered 


320  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

that  he  had  involuntarily  made  the  calculations 
with  the  odious  thoughts  of  which  he  had  been 
reproached.  Then,  examining  his  conscience  with 
a  quite  angelic  good  faith,  he  found  nothing  but 
selfishness  in  his  words,  in  his  ideas,  in  the  answers 
conceived  and  not  expressed.  He  blamed  himself, 
and  in  his  despair  he  thought  of  throwing  himself 
out  of  the  window.  The  /  paralyzed  him.  What  to 
say,  in  fact,  to  a  woman  who  did  not  believe  in 
love.-*  'Let  me  prove  to  you  how  much  I  love  you.' 
Always  /.  Montriveau  did  not  know,  as  in  similar 
circumstance  the  ordinary  heroes  of  the  boudoir 
know,  how  to  imitate  the  rough  logician  who 
marched  before  the  Pyrrhonians  while  denying  his 
own  movement.  This  audacious  man  failed  pre- 
cisely in  that  audacity  which  is  common  to  those 
lovers  who  know  the  formula  of  feminine  algebra. 
If  so  many  women,  and  even  the  most  virtuous,  fall  a 
prey  to  those  men  skilful  in  love  to  whom  the  vul- 
gar give  a  bad  name,  perhaps  it  is  because  they 
are  grand  demonstrators,  and  that  love,  in  spite  of 
its  delightful  poetry  of  sentiment,  demands  more 
geometry  than  we  think  for.  Now,  the  duchess 
and  Montriveau  were  alike  in  this  respect,  that  they 
were  equally  inexpert  in  love.  She  knew  very 
little  of  its  theory,  was  ignorant  of  its  practice,  felt 
nothing  and  reflected  on  all.  Montriveau  knew 
very  little  of  its  practice,  was  ignorant  of  its 
theory,  and  felt  too  much  to  reflect.  Both  of 
them  were  suffering  under  the  misfortune  of  this 
curious   situation.      In  this  supreme  moment,   its 


I 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  321 

myriads  of  thoughts  might  be  reduced  to  this  one 
only:  "Surrender  yourself."  A  phrase,  horribly 
egotistical  to  a  woman  for  whom  these  words  bore 
no  memories  and  revealed  no  image.  Nevertheless, 
it  was  necessary  to  reply.  Although  his  blood  was 
lashed  by  these  little  phrases,  shot  like  arrows,  one 
by  one,  very  sharp,  very  cold,  very  steely,  Montri- 
veau  was  compelled  to  dissemble  his  anger  that  he 
might  not  lose  all  by  some  extravagance. 

"Madame  la  Duchesse,  I  am  in  despair  that  God 
has  not  invented  for  woman  any  other  manner  of 
confirming  the  gift  of  her  heart  than  by  adding  to  it 
that  of  her  person.  The  high  price  which  you 
attach  to  yourself  shows  me  that  I  should  not  attach 
a  lesser  one.  If  you  give  me  your  soul  and  all  your 
feelings,  as  you  say  you  do,  what  matters  the  rest.? 
However,  if  my  happiness  is  to  you  so  painful  a 
sacrifice,  let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  Only,  you 
will  pardon  a  man  of  heart  for  feeling  humiliated  in 
seeing  himself  taken  for  a  spaniel." 

The  tone  of  this  last  phrase  might  well  have 
frightened  any  other  woman ;  but  when  one  of  these 
petticoat-wearers  is  lifted  above  everything  else  in 
permitting  herself  to  be  turned  into  a  divinity, 
there  is  no  power  here  below  that  is  as  proud 
as  she. 

"Monsieur  le  Marquis,  I  am  in  despair  that  God 
has  not  invented  for  man  any  more  noble  manner 
of  confirming  the  gift  of  his  heart  than  by  the  man- 
ifestation of  desires  prodigiously  vulgar.  If,  in  giv- 
ing our  persons  we  become  slaves,  a  man  commits 
21 


322  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

himself  to  nothing  in  accepting  us.  Who  can 
assure  me  that  1  shall  be  always  loved?  The  love 
that  I  should  be  forced  to  show  at  all  times  to  attach 
you  closer  to  me  might  be  the  very  reason  of  your 
desertion.  I  do  not  choose  to  be  a  second  edition 
of  Madame  de  Beauseant.  Does  any  one  ever  know 
what  it  is  that  keeps  you  faithful  to  us  ?  Our  con- 
stant coldness  is  the  secret  of  the  constant  passion 
of  some  of  you ;  for  others,  a  perpetual  devotion  is 
required,  an  adoration  every  minute;  for  these, 
kindness;  for  those,  despotism.  No  woman  has 
ever  yet  fully  deciphered  your  heart" 

There  was  a  pause,  after  which  she  changed  her 
tone. 

"In  short,  my  friend,  you  cannot  prevent  a 
woman  from  trembling  at  this  question,  'shall  I  be 
always  loved  ? '  Hard  as  they  may  be,  my  words 
are  dictated  to  me  by  the  fear  of  losing  you.  Mon 
Dieii!  it  is  not  I,  dear,  who  speak  to  you,  but  rea- 
son; and  how  is  it  that  reason  is  to  be  found  in 
such  a  light  creature  as  I  am.?  Indeed,  I  cannot 
tell." 

To  hear  this  answer,  begun  in  a  tone  of  most 
trenchant  irony  and  ended  with  the  sweetest  accents 
which  a  woman  can  use  to  picture  love  in  all  its 
candor,  was  not  this  to  pass  in  a  moment  from  mar- 
tyrdom to  the  skies?  Montriveau  turned  pale,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  fell  on  his  knees  at  the 
foot  of  a  woman.  He  kissed  the  hem  of  the  robe  of 
the  duchess,  her  feet,  her  knees ;  but  for  the  honor 
of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  let  us  not  reveal  the 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  323 

mysteries  of  her  boudoirs  in  which  everything  is 
required  of  love  excepting  that  which  could  prove 
love. 

"Dear  Antoinette,"  cried  Montr iveau  in  the 
delirium  in  which  he  was  plunged  by  the  entire 
surrender  of  the  duchess  who  thought  herself  gen- 
erous in  permitting  herself  to  be  adored;  "yes,  you 
are  right,  I  do  not  wish  that  you  should  retain  any 
doubts.  At  this  moment  I  tremble  myself  lest  I 
should  lose  the  angel  of  my  life,  and  I  would  wish 
to  invent  for  us  indissoluble  bonds." 

"Ah!"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "you  see,  I  was 
right" 

"Let  me  finish,"  resumed  Armand,  "I  will  with 
one  word  dispel  all  your  doubts.  Listen,  if  I  for- 
sake you  1  will  merit  a  thousand  deaths.  Be 
entirely  mine,  and  I  will  give  you  the  right  to  kill 
me  if  1  betray  you.  I  will  write,  myself,  a  letter 
in  which  I  will  declare  certain  reasons  that  have 
compelled  me  to  destroy  myself;  in  short,  I  will 
make  in  it  my  last  will.  You  shall  hold  this  testa- 
ment which  will  justify  my  death,  and  you  can 
thus  avenge  yourself  without  having  anything  to 
fear  from  either  God  or  man." 

"Have  I  any  need  of  such  a  letter?  If  I  had  lost 
your  love,  what  would  life  be  to  me.''  If  I  wished 
to  kill  you,  would  I  not  follow  you?  No,  I  thank 
you  for  the  idea,  but  I  do  not  want  the  letter. 
Would  I  not  think  that  you  were  faithful  to  me 
through  fear,  or,  the  danger  of  an  infidelity,  would 
not  that  be  an  attraction  for  one  who  thus  exposed 


324  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

his  life?     Armand,  that  which  I  ask  of  you  is  the 
one  thing  difficult  to  do." 

"And  what  do  you  wish,  then  ?  " 
"Your  obedience  and  my  freedom." 
"My  God,"  he  cried,  "I  am  like  a  child." 
"A  wilful  child  and  one  well  spoiled,"  she  said, 
caressing  the  thick  hair  of  his  head  which  she  still 
retained   on   her   knees.     "Oh!    yes,    much   more 
loved  than  he  thinks,   and  yet  very  disobedient. 
Why  not  stay  as  we  are  ?  why  not  sacrifice  to  me 
the  desires  which  offend  me?  why  not  accept  what 
I  give  if  it  is  all  that  I  can  honestly  grant?     Are 
you  not  then  happy?" 

"Oh!  yes,"  he  answered,  "I  am  happy  when  I 
have  no  doubts.  Antoinette,  to  doubt  in  love,  is  it 
not  to  die?" 

And  he  showed  at  a  stroke  what  he  was,  and 
what  all  men  are  when  burning  with  desires,  elo- 
quent, insinuating.  After  having  tasted  those 
pleasures  sanctioned  no  doubt  by  some  secret  and 
Jesuitical  ukase,  the  duchess  experienced  all  those 
cerebral  emotions  the  habit  of  which  had  rendered 
the  love  of  Armand  as  necessary  for  her  as  society, 
the  ball,  the  opera.  To  see  herself  adored  by  a 
man  whose  superiority,  whose  character,  inspired 
fear;  to  make  him  a  child;  to  play  with  him  as 
Poppoea  played  with  Nero, — very  many  women, 
like  the  wives  of  Henry  VIII.,  have  paid  for  this 
perilous  delight  with  their  life's  blood.  Well,  curi- 
ous presentiment!  in  yielding  to  him  the  pretty 
blond  waves  of  her  hair  through  which  he  loved  to 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  325 

thrust  his  fingers,  in  feeling  the  pressure  of  the 
loving  hand  of  this  truly  great  man,  in  playing  her- 
self with  the  black  locks  of  his  hair,  in  this  boudoir 
where  she  reigned,  the  duchess  said  to  herself: 

"This  man  is  capable  of  killing  me  if  he  once 
perceives  that  I  am  trifling  with  him." 


I 


Monsieur  de  Montriveau  remained  till  two  in  the 
morning  beside  his  mistress,  who,  from  that  mo- 
ment, seemed  to  him  no  longer  either  a  duchess  or 
a  Navarreins; — Antoinette  had  pushed  her  deception 
so  far  as  to  seem  a  woman.  During  this  delightful 
evening,  the  sweetest  prelude  that  ever  a  Parisian 
woman  gave  to  that  which  the  world  calls  a 
fault  the  general  was  permitted  to  see  in  her, 
despite  the  affectations  of  a  coquettish  modesty,  all 
the  beauty  of  a  young  girl.  He  might  think  with 
reason  that  so  many  capricious  quarrels  were  only 
veils  with  which  a  celestial  soul  clothed  itself,  to 
be  lifted  one  by  one  like  those  with  which  she 
enveloped  her  adorable  body.  The  duchess  was 
to  him  the  most  artless,  the  most  ingenuous  of  mis- 
tresses, and  he  made  of  her  the  one  woman  of  his 
choice ;  he  went  away  from  her,  at  last,  happy  in 
having  brought  her  finally  to  grant  him  so  many 
pledges  of  love  that  it  seemed  to  him  impossible  not 
to  be  henceforth  for  her  a  husband  in  secret,  the 
choice  of  whom  had  been  approved  by  God.  With 
this  thought,  with  the  candor  of  those  who  feel  all 
the  obligations  of  love  in  tasting  its  pleasures, 
Armand  returned  slowly  home.  He  followed  the 
quays  so  that  he  might  see  the  greatest  possible 
space  of  heaven.  He  wished  to  enlarge  the  firma- 
ment and  all    nature  as  he  felt  his  heart  expand. 

(327) 


328  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

His  lungs  seemed  to  him  to  inspire  more  air  than 
they  had  taken  in  the  night  before.     As  he  walked 
he  questioned  himself,  and  he  promised  himself  to 
love  this  woman  so  religiously  that  she  should  find 
each  day  an  absolution  for  her  social  faults  in  a 
continued  happiness.    Gentle  agitations  of  an  over- 
flowing life !     Men  who  have  sufficient  strength  to 
dye  their  souls  with  only  one  sentiment  experience 
an    infinite   joy    in    contemplating   by   snatches  a 
whole   life-time    incessantly   passionate,    as    some 
recluses  can  contemplate  the  divine  light  in  their 
ecstasies.      Without  this  belief  in   its  perpetuity, 
^  love  would  be  nothing;  constancy  enlarges  it.     It 
was  thus  that  Montriveau  comprehended  his  passion 
as  he  walked  along  in  the  grasp  of  his  happiness. 
"We  are  joined  one  to  the  other  forever!  " 
This  thought  was  for  this  man  a  talisman  which 
realized  the  desires  of  his  life-time.     He  did  not  ask 
himself  if  the  duchess  would  change,  if  this  love 
would  endure;  no,  he  had  faith,  that  virtue  without 
which  there  is  no  Christian  future,  but  which,  per- 
haps,  is  still   more  necessary  to  society.     For  the 
first  time,  he  regarded  life   through  his  feeling,  he 
who  had  hitherto  lived  only  by  the  excessive  action 
of  human  strength,  the  devotion,  half  corporeal,  of 
the  soldier. 

The  next  day  Monsieur  de  Montriveau  set  out  at 
an  early  hour  towards  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain. 
He  had  an  appointment  in  a  house  near  the  Hotel 
de  Langeais,  to  which,  as  soon  as  he  had  transacted 
his  business,  he  turned  his  steps,  as  if  to  his  own 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE  LANGEAIS  329 

home.  The  general  was  walking  with  a  man  for 
whom  he  seemed  to  have  a  species  of  aversion 
when  he  encountered  him  in  society.  This  man 
was  the  Marquis  de  Ronquerolles,  whose  reputation 
became  so  high  in  the  boudoirs  of  Paris;  a  man  of 
wit,  of  talent,  above  all  of  courage,  and  who  gave 
the  tone  to  all  the  young  men  of  Paris;  a  gallant 
man,  whose  success  and  whose  experience  were 
equally  envied,  and  to  whom  was  lacking  neither 
fortune  nor  birth,  which  add  in  Paris  so  much  lustre 
to  the  qualities  of  a  man  of  the  world. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  said  Monsieur  de  Ron- 
querolles to  Montriveau. 

"To  Madame  de  Langeais. " 

"Ah!  true,  I  forgot  that  you  had  allowed  yourself 
to  be  taken  in  her  toils.  You  will  lose  with  her  a 
love  which  you  had  much  better  employ  elsewhere. 
I  could  give  you  ten  women  who  are  worth  a  thous- 
and of  that  titled  courtesan,  who  does  with  her  head 
what  other  women,  more  frank,  do—  " 

"What  are  you  saying,  my  dear  fellow?"  said 
Armand,  interrupting  him,  "the  duchess  is  an 
angel  of  purity." 

Ronquerolles  laughed. 

"If  you  have  got  as  far  as  that,  my  dear  fellow, " 
he  said,  "I  must  enlighten  you.  One  word  only! 
between  us,  it  cannot  matter.  Is  the  duchess 
yours?  In  that  case,  I  have  nothing  to  say.  Come 
now,  confide  in  me.  It  is  a  question  of  not  losing 
your  time  in  attaching  your  fme  soul  to  an  ungrate- 
ful nature  that  will  betray  every  hope  you  form." 


330  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

When  Armand  had  naively  sketched  the  situation, 
in  which  he  mentioned  minutely  the  rights  which 
he  had  obtained  with  so  much  difficulty,  Ronque- 
rolles  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter  so  cruel  that  in 
another  man  it  would  have  cost  his  life.  But 
in  seeing  the  peculiar  manner  in  which  these  two 
men  looked  and  spoke  to  each  other,  standing  alone 
in  the  angle  of  a  wall  as  far  from  the  world  of  men 
^  as  they  would  have  been  in  the  middle  of  a  desert, 
it  was  easy  to  imagine  that  they  were  united  by 
some  friendship  without  bounds  and  that  no  human 
interest  could  embroil  them. 

"My  dear  Armand,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  that 
you  were  involved  with  the  duchess.?  I  could  have 
given  you  some  advice  that  would  have  enabled 
you  to  bring  this  intrigue  to  a  good  end.  You 
ought  to  know,  first,  that  the  women  of  our  Fau- 
bourg, like  all  others,  delight  in  being  immersed  in 
love ;  but  they  wish  to  possess  without  themselves 
being  possessed.  They  have  arranged  matters  with 
nature.  The  jurisprudence  of  the  parish  allows 
them  almost  everything,  short  of  the  positive  sin. 
The  favors  with  which  your  lovely  duchess  regales 
you  are  venial  sins  which  she  washes  off  with  the 
waters  of  penitence.  But,  if  you  had  the  imperti- 
nence to  demand  seriously  the  great  mortal  sin  to 
which,  naturally,  you  attach  the  highest  import- 
ance, you  would  see  with  what  profound  disdain  the 
door  of  the  boudoir  and  that  of  the  hotel  would  be 
incontinently  shut  in  your  face.  The  tender 
Antoinette  would  have  forgotten  everything,  you 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  33 1 

would  be  less  than  nothing  for  her.  Your  kisses, 
my  dear  friend,  are  wiped  off  with  the  indifference 
that  a  woman  brings  to  the  details  of  her  toilet. 
The  duchess  would  sponge  love  away  from  her 
cheeks  just  as  she  does  her  rouge.  We  are  well 
acquainted  with  that  sort  of  woman,  the  pure 
Parisian.  Have  you  never  noticed  in  the  streets  a 
little  grisette  trotting  quickly  along?  her  head  is  a 
picture, — pretty  bonnet,  fresh  cheeks,  coquettish 
hair,  arch  smile,  all  the  rest  of  her  very  little  cared 
for.  Is  not  that  a  good  portrait?  There  is  your 
Parisian  woman,  she  knows  that  her  head  alone 
will  be  seen, — therefore  for  her  head  are  all  her 
cares,  all  her  adornments,  all  her  vanities.  Well, 
your  duchess  is  all  head,  she  only  feels  by  her 
head,  she  has  a  heart  in  her  head,  a  voice  in  her 
head,  she  is  dainty  in  her  head.  We  call  this  poor 
thing  an  intellectual  Lais.  You  are  played  with 
like  a  child.  If  you  doubt  it,  you  can  have  the 
proof  this  evening,  this  morning,  this  instant.  Go 
to  her,  try  to  demand,  to  wish  imperiously  that 
which  is  refused  you ;  even  though  you  set  about  it 
like  the  late  Marechal  de  Richelieu,  not  to  be 
denied." 

Armand  was  dumfounded. 

"Do  you  want  her  enough  to  make  a  fool  of  your- 
self?" 

"I  want  her  at  any  price!"  cried  Montriveau, 
desperately. 

"Well  then,  listen.  Be  as  implacable  as  she  will 
be;  try  to  humiliate  her,  to  pique  her  vanity,  to 


332  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

interest,  not  her  heart,  not  her  soul,  but  the  nerves 
and  the  lymph  of  this  woman  who  is  at  once  nerv- 
ous and  lymphatic.  If  you  can  rouse  a  desire  in 
her,  you  are  saved.  But  quit  all  your  beautiful 
childish  ideas.  If,  having  caught  her  in  your 
eagles'  claws,  you  hesitate,  if  you  yield,  if  one  of 
your  eyelashes  quivers,  if  she  thinks  she  can  still 
control  you,  she  will  slip  from  your  talons  like  a 
fish  and  escape,  never  to  be  caught  again.  Be  as 
inflexible  as  the  law.  Have  no  more  mercy  than 
the  executioner.  Strike.  When  you  have  struck, 
strike  again.  Strike  always,  as  if  with  a  knout. 
Duchesses  are  hard,  my  dear  Armand,  and  these 
feminine  natures  soften  only  under  blows;  suffering 
gives  them  a  heart,  and  it  is  a  work  of  charity  to 
strike  them.  Striketherefore  without  ceasing.  Ah! 
when  pain  has  well  wrung  their  nerves,  enervated 
those  fibres  that  you  think  so  soft  and  tender ;  made 
that  dry  heart  to  beat,  which,  under  this  play,  will 
resume  its  elasticity;  when  the  brain  has  yielded, 
passion  will  enter  perhaps  in  the  metallic  springs 
of  this  machine  of  tears,  of  manners,  of  swoonings, 
of  melting  phrases;  and  you  will  see  the  most  mag- 
nificent of  conflagrations  if  only  the  chimney  takes 
fire.  This  kind  of  female  steel  will  have  the  red 
heat  of  metal  in  the  forge!  a  heat  more  durable 
than  any  other,  and  this  incandescence  will  perhaps 
become  love.  Nevertheless,  I  doubt  it.  And  then, 
is  the  duchess  worth  so  much  trouble.?  Between 
ourselves,  she  would  have  done  better  to  have  been 
primarily  formed  by  a  man  like  myself,   I  would 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  333 

have  made  of  her  a  charming  woman,  she  has  race; 
but  as  for  you  two,  you  will  stay  always  at  the  A, 
B,  C  of  love.  But  you  are  in  love,  and  you  do 
not  share  at  this  moment  my  ideas  on  the  subject. — 
All  happiness  to  you,  my  children,"  added  Ronque- 
rolles  laughing  and  after  a  pause.  "For  my  part,  I 
declare  in  favor  of  easy  women ;  at  least  they  are 
tender,  they  love  naturally,  and  not  with  all  these 
social  condiments.  My  poor  boy,  a  woman  who 
quibbles,  who  only  wishes  to  inspire  love?  well,  it 
is  well  to  have  one  as  a  matter  of  luxury,  as  you 
have  a  riding  horse;  to  see  only  in  her  the  little 
game  of  the  confessional  against  the  sofa,  or  of 
white  against  black,  of  the  queen  against  the 
bishop,  of  scruples  against  pleasure,  a  very  divert- 
ing game  of  chess.  A  man  ever  so  little  of  a  roue, 
who  knows  the  game,  would  give  mate  in  three 
moves,  at  will.  If  I  undertook  a  woman  of  that  kind, 
I  would  make  it  my  object  to — " 

He  whispered  a  word  in  Armand's  ear  and  left 
him  abruptly  that  he  might  not  hear  his  answer. 

As  for  Montriveau,  he  made  one  bound  across  the 
courtyard  of  the  Hotel  de  Langeais,  went  up  to  the 
duchess's  apartments  and,  without  having  himself 
announced,  entered  and  went  into  her  bedroom. 

"But  this  is  not  the  thing,"  she  said,  gathering 
her  dressing-robe  about  her  hastily;  "Armand,  you 
are  an  abominable  man.  Go  away,  leave  me,  I  beg 
of  you.     Go,  go.    Wait  for  me  in  the  salon.     Go." 

"Dear  angel,"  he  said  to  her,  "has  a  husband  no 
privileges? " 


334  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

"But  it  is  detestable  taste,  Monsieur,  either  in  a 
bridegroom  or  in  a  husband,  to  surprise  his  wife  in 
this  way." 

He  came  up  to  her,  took  hold  of  her  and  clasped 
her  in  his  arms: 

"Forgive  me,  my  dear  Antoinette,  but  a  thousand 
evil  suspicions  fill  my  heart." 

"Suspicions,  fie — ah!  fie,  fie,  then!" 

"Suspicions  which  seem  almost  justified.  If  you 
loved  me,  would  you  now  quarrel  with  me  ?  Would 
you  not  be  happy  to  see  me  ?  Would  you  not  have 
felt  some,  I  know  not  what,  movement  of  the  heart.? 
Why  I,  who  am  not  a  woman,  I  feel  an  inward 
trembling  at  the  very  sound  of  your  voice.  The 
desire  to  fall  upon  your  neck  has  often  assailed  me 
in  the  midst  of  a  ball." 

"Oh!  if  you  have  as  many  suspicions  as  the 
times  I  have  not  fallen  on  your  neck  before  all  the 
world,  1  fear  that  I  shall  be  under  suspicion  all  my 
life;  but  in  comparison  with  you  Othello  was  a 
baby!"  ^ 

"Ah,"  he  said  in  despair,  "I  am  not  loved — " 

"At  least,  at  this  moment,  admit  that  you  are 
not  lovable." 

"I  have,  then,  still  to  seek  to  please  you?" 

"Ah!  I  believe  it.  Come,"  she  said  with  a  little 
imperative  air,  "go,  leave  me.  I  am  not  like  you; 
I  do  seek  to  please  you — " 

Never  did  any  woman  know  better  than  Madame 
de  Langeais  how  to  put  so  much  grace  into  her  inso- 
lence; and  is  this  not  to  double  its  effect.?  is  this 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  335 

not  to  make  the  coldest  man  furious?  At  this  mo- 
ment her  eyes,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  her  attitude, 
all  expressed  a  species  of  perfect  liberty  which  is 
never  found  in  a  loving  woman  when  she  is  in  the 
presence  of  the  one  the  sight  of  whom  alone  should 
make  her  palpitate.  Armand,  his  mind  somewhat 
disabused  by  the  counsels  of  the  Marquis  de  Ron- 
querolles  and  still  farther  enlightened  by  that  rapid 
perception  with  which  passion  momentarily  endows 
the  least  sagacious  of  men,  but  which  is  found  so 
complete  in  strong  minds,  defined  at  once  the  terri- 
ble truth  which  the  self-possession  of  the  duchess 
betrayed,  and  his  heart  swelled  with  a  storm  like 
a  lake  ready  to  burst  its  bounds. 

"If  you  spoke  the  truth  yesterday,  be  mine,  my 
dear  Antoinette,"  he  cried,  "I  will — " 

"In  the  first  place,"  she  said,  repelling  him 
calmly  and  with  strength  when  she  saw  him 
advance,  "do  not  compromise  me.  My  waiting- 
woman  might  hear  you.  Respect  me,  I  beg  of  you. 
Your  familiarity  is  very  well  in  the  evening  in  my 
boudoir;  but  here, — no.  And  pray  what  signifies 
your  'I  will '  ?  I  will !  No  one  has  ever  said  that 
word  to  me.  It  seems  to  me  very  ridiculous,  per- 
fectly ridiculous." 

"You  will  not  yield  to  me  on  this  point?  "  said  he. 

"Ah!  you  call  it  a  point,  the  free  disposition  of 
ourselves;  a  point  of  great  importance,  in  fact; 
and  you  will  permit  me  to  be  on  this  point  entirely 
my  own  mistress." 

"And  if,  trusting  to  your  promises,  I  exact  it?" 


336  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

"Then  you  will  prove  to  me  that  I  have  been 
very  wrong  in  making  you  the  slightest  promise,  I 
shall  not  be  foolish  enough  to  keep  it,  and  1  shall 
entreat  you  to  let  me  alone." 

The  general  turned  pale,  was  about  to  spring  for- 
ward; Madame  de  Langeais  rang,  her  maid  entered, 
and  smiling  at  him  with  a  mocking  grace,  the 
duchess  said  to  Armand: 

"Have  the  kindness  to  come  back  when  I  am 
ready  to  be  seen." 

Montriveau  felt  at  this  moment  all  the  hardness 
of  this  woman;  cold  and  cutting  as  steel,  she  was 
crushing  in  her  scorn.  In  one  moment  she  had 
broken  the  bonds  that  were  strong  only  for  her 
lover.  The  duchess  had  read  on  Armand's  brow 
tlie  secret  exigencies  of  this  visit  and  had  judged 
that  the  moment  had  come  to  make  this  imperial 
soldier  know  that  duchesses  might  well  lend  them- 
selves to  love,  but  not  give  themselves,  and  that 
their  conquest  was  more  difficult  to  make  than  had 
been  that  of  Europe. 

"Madame,"  said  Armand,  "I  have  not  the  time  to 
wait.  I  am,  as  you  said  yourself,  a  spoiled  child. 
When  1  seriously  wish  for  that  of  which  we  were 
speaking  just  now,  I  will  have  it." 

"You  will  have  it?"  she  said  with  a  haughty 
manner  in  which  was  mingled  some  surprise. 

"I  will  have  it." 

"Ah!  how  good  of  you  to  will  it.  As  a  matter  of 
curiosity,  1  should  like  to  know  how  you  intend  to 
get  it—" 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  337 

"I  am  enchanted,"  replied  Montriveau,  laughing 
in  such  a  manner  that  it  frightened  the  duchess,  "to 
be  able  to  give  an  interest  to  your  life.  Will  you 
permit  me  to  come  to  take  you  to  the  ball  to-night  ?  " 

"A  thousand  thanks,  Monsieur  de  Marsay  has 
preceded  you,  I  have  made  an  engagement." 

Montriveau  bowed  gravely  and  withdrew. 

"Ronquerolles  was  right,"  he  thought,  "we  are 
going  to  play  henceforth  a  game  of  chess." 

From  that  moment  he  hid  his  emotions  under  an 
appearance  of  perfect  calmness.  No  man  is  strong 
enough  to  be  able  to  support  these  changes  which 
transport  the  soul  rapidly  from  the  highest  happi- 
ness to  supreme  despair.  Had  he  not  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  life  of  happiness  only  to  feel  more 
deeply  the  void  of  his  previous  existence  ?  It  was  a 
terrible  storm ;  but  he  knew  how  to  suffer,  and  he 
received  the  rush  of  his  tumultuous  thoughts  as  a 
granite  rock  receives  the  waves  of  an  angry  ocean. 

"I  could  say  nothing  to  her;  in  her  presence  I 
have  no  longer  any  wits.  She  does  not  know  how 
vile  and  despicable  she  is.  No  one  has  ever  dared 
to  put  this  creature  face  to  face  with  herself.  She 
has  doubtless  trifled  with  many  men,  I  will  avenge 
them  all." 

For  the  first  time,  perhaps,  in  the  heart  of  a  man 
love  and  revenge  were  so  equally  mingled  that  it 
was  impossible  for  Montriveau  himself  to  know 
whether  it  was  love  or  vengeance  which  had  the 
ascendancy.  He  went  that  same  evening  to  the 
ball  where  he  knew  she  would  be,  and  he  almost 
22 


338  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

despaired  of  being  able  to  touch  this  woman  to  whom 
he  was  tempted  to  ascribe  something  demoniacal: 
She  showed  herself  very  gracious  to  him,  and 
smiled  on  him  pleasantly,  she  doubtless  did  not 
wish  the  world  to  believe  that  she  had  compromised 
herself  with  Monsieur  de  Montriveau.  A  mutual 
coolness  would  have  betrayed  love.  But  that  the 
duchess  should  change  nothing  in  her  manner 
while  the  marquis  appeared  sombre  and  vexed, 
would  not  that  make  it  apparent  that  Armand  had 
obtained  nothing  from  her?  The  world  is  quick  to 
recognize  the  unhappiness  of  a  rejected  man,  and 
never  confounds  this  with  the  discontent  which 
some  women  order  their  lovers  to  affect  in  the 
hope  of  concealing  a  mutual  love.  And  every  one 
smiled  at  Montriveau,  who,  not  having  consulted  his 
new  elephant-driver,  remained  dreamy,  suffering; 
while  Monsieur  de  Ronquerolles  would  perhaps 
have  advised  him  to  compromise  the  duchess  by 
replying  to  her  false  courtesies  with  passionate 
demonstrations.  Armand  de  Montriveau  left  the 
ball,  holding  all  human  nature  in  horror,  and  yet 
hardly  able  to  believe  in  such  utter  perversity. 

"Since  there  are  no  public  executioners  for  such 
crimes,"  he  said,  looking  at  the  lighted  windows  of 
the  salons  in  which  were  dancing,  talking  and  smil- 
ing the  loveliest  women  in  Paris,  "1  will  take  you 
by  the  nape  of  your  neck,  Madame  la  Duchesse,  and 
I  will  make  you  feel  a  sharper  blade  than  the  knife 
of  the  Place  de  la  Gr^ve.  Steel  against  steel,  we 
shall  see  which  heart  can  bear  most." 


* 

For  about  a  week,  Madame  de  Langeais  hoped  to 
see  the  Marquis  de  Montriveau  again;  but  Armand 
contented  himself  by  sending  his  card  every  morn- 
ing to  the  Hotel  de  Langeais.  Each  time  that  this 
card  was  brought  to  the  duchess  she  was  unable  to 
repress  a  shudder,  she  was  filled  with  sinister 
thoughts,  but  indistinctly,  like  a  presentiment  of 
misfortune.  When  she  read  that  name  at  times 
she  seemed  to  feel  in  her  hair  the  powerful  hand  of 
this  implacable  man,  at  times  this  name  threatened 
vengeances  which  her  active  fancy  imagined  as 
atrocious.  She  had  studied  him  too  closely  not  to 
fear  him.  Would  she  be  assassinated.?  This  man 
with  the  neck  of  a  bull,  would  he  tear  her  open  in 
tossing  her  over  his  head.?  would  he  trample  her 
under  foot.?  When,  where,  how  would  he  seize 
her.?  would  he  make  her  suffer  much,  and  what 
species  of  suffering  was  he  now  preparing  for  her.? 
She  repented.  There  were  moments  when,  if  he 
had  come,  she  would  have  flung  herself  into  his 
arms  in  complete  surrender.  Every  night  as  she 
fell  asleep  she  saw  his  image  under  some  new 
aspect.  Sometimes  his  bitter  smile,  sometimes 
his  brows  knitted  like  Jupiter's,  his  lion-look,  or 
some  proud  motion  of  his  shoulders,  made  him  terri- 
ble to  her.  The  next  morning  the  card  would 
seem  to  her  covered  with  blood.    She  lived  agitated 

(339) 


340  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

by  that  name  more  than  she  had  ever  been  by  the 
fiery,  obstinate,  exacting  lover.  Then,  as  the 
silence  was  prolonged,  her  apprehensions  deepened; 
she  was  forced  to  prepare  herself,  without  outside 
help,  for  a  horrible  struggle,  of  which  she  was  not 
permitted  to  speak.  This  soul,  proud  and  hard, 
was  more  sensible  to  the  sting  of  hate  than  it  had 
recently  been  to  the  caresses  of  love.  Ah !  if  the 
general  could  have  seen  his  mistress  as  she  knit 
her  brows  in  bitter  thoughts  in  the  recesses  of  that 
boudoir  in  which  he  had  tasted  so  many  joys,  per- 
haps he  would  have  been  filled  with  great  hopes. 
Is  not  pride,  after  all,  one  of  those  human  emotions 
which  can  give  birth  to  none  but  noble  actions? 
Although  Madame  de  Langeais  kept  the  secret  of 
her  thoughts,  we  may  suppose  that  Monsieur  de 
Montriveau  was  no  longer  indifferent  to  her.  Is  it 
not  an  immense  conquest  for  a  man  to  absorb  a 
woman's  mind?  Once  there,  he  must  necessarily 
make  progress  one  way  or  the  other.  Put  the 
feminine  creature  under  the  heels  of  a  furious  horse, 
before  some  terrible  animal,  and  she  will  certainly 
fall  on  her  knees,  she  will  expect  death;  but  if  the 
beast  be  merciful  and  does  not  kill  her  at  once,  she 
will  love  the  horse,  the  lion,  the  bull,  she  will 
speak  to  it  with  composure.  The  duchess  felt 
herself  under  the  feet  of  a  lion ;  she  trembled,  she 
did  not  hate.  These  two  persons  thus  so  strangely 
pitted  against  each  other  met  in  society  three 
times  during  that  week.  Each  time,  in  reply  to 
her  coquettish  interrogations,  the  duchess  received 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE  LANGEAIS  341 

from  Armand  respectful  salutations  and  smiles 
tinged  with  so  cruel  an  irony  that  they  confirmed 
all  the  apprehensions  inspired  in  the  morning  by 
the  visiting-card.  Life  is  only  what  our  feelings 
make  of  it  for  us,  feelings  had  now  hollowed  an 
abyss  between  these  two  persons. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  following  week  the 
Comtesse  de  Serizy,  sister  of  the  Marquis  de  Ron- 
querolles,  gave  a  grand  ball,  at  which  Madame  de 
Langeais  was  present.  The  first  person  the  duchess 
saw  on  entering  was  Armand.  He  was  waiting  for 
her  this  time,  at  least  she  thought  so.  They  ex- 
changed looks.  A  cold  sweat  suddenly  issued  from 
every  pore  of  her  skin.  She  had  believed  Montriveau 
capable  of  some  unheard-of  vengeance,  propor- 
tioned to  their  condition ;  this  vengeance  was  found, 
it  was  waiting,  it  was  hot,  it  seethed.  The  eyes 
of  this  betrayed  lover  darted  lightnings  at  her,  and 
his  visage  radiated  a  satisfied  hatred.  With  the 
utmost  desire  to  display  her  coldness  and  her  super- 
ciliousness the  duchess  remained  silent  and  op- 
pressed. She  moved  to  the  side  of  the  Comtesse 
de  Serizy,  who  could  not  forbear  saying  to  her : 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  Antoinette?  You 
look  terrifying." 

"A  contra-dance  will  restore  me,"  she  answered, 
taking  the  hand  of  a  young  man  who  came  forward. 

Madame  de  Langeais  began  to  waltz  with  a  sort 
of  nervous  frenzy  that  increased  the  lowering  look 
on  Montriveau's  face.  He  remained  standing, 
somewhat  in  advance  of  those  who  were  amusing 


342  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

themselves  by  watching  the  waltzers.  Each  time 
\that  his  mistress  passed  before  him  his  eyes  seized 
ppon  this  revolving  head  like  those  of  a  tiger  sure 
of  its  prey.  The  waltz  over,  the  duchess  came  and 
seated  herself  near  the  countess,  and  the  marquis 
did  not  cease  to  watch  her  as  he  conversed  with  a 
stranger. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said,  "one  of  the  things  which 
most  struck  me  in  this  journey — " 

The  duchess  was  all  ears. 

" — Was  the  phrase  used  by  the  guard  at  West- 
minster in  showing  the  axe  with  which  a  masked 
man,  as  it  is  said,  had  struck  off  the  head  of 
Charles  I.,  in  memory  of  the  king  who  had  said  it 
himself  to  an  inquirer." 

"What  did  he  say,"  asked  Madame  de  Serizy. 

"Do  not  touch  the  axe!"  answered  Montr iveau 
in  a  tone  in  which  there  seemed  to  be  menace. 

"Really,  Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  said  the 
Duchesse  de  Langeais,  "you  look  at  my  neck  with 
such  a  melodramatic  air  in  repeating  this  old  story, 
familiar  to  everyone  who  has  been  to  London,  that  I 
can  almost  imagine  I  can  see  the  axe  in  your  hand. " 

These  last  words  were  said  laughingly,  though 
a  cold  sweat  had  taken  possession  of  her. 

"But  this  story  is,  on  the  contrary,  very  new," 
he  replied. 

"In  what  way,  pray  tell  me?  if  you  please,  in 
what?" 

"In  this,  Madame,  you  have  touched  the  axe," 
said  Montriveau  to  her   in  a  low  tone. 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  343 

"What  a  delightful  prophecy!  "  she  cried  with  a 
forced  smile.     "And  when  will  my  head  fall  ?  " 

"I  do  not  wish  your  pretty  head  to  fall,  Madame. 
1  only  fear  some  great  misfortune  for  you.  If  you 
were  shorn,  would  you  not  regret  your  charming 
blond  hair  which  you  make  so  much  of? — " 

"But  there  are  tiiose  for  whom  women  are  glad 
to  make  such  sacrifices,  and  often  even  for  men 
who  do  not  know  how  to  overlook  their  momentary 
ill  humor." 

"Agreed.  Well,  if,  all  at  once,  by  some  chemical 
process,  a  jester  were  to  take  away  your  beauty, 
make  you  seem  a  hundred  years  old  when  you  are 
for  us  but  eighteen  ? " 

"Ah!  Monsieur,"  she  said,  interrupting  him, 
"the  small-pox  is  our  Battle  of  Waterloo.  The  day 
after,  we  know  those  who  truly  love  us." 

"Would  you  not  regret  that  delightful  counte- 
nance which? — " 

"Oh!  very  much;  but  less  for  myself  than  for 
him  who  might  care  for  it.  Still,  if  I  were  sincerely 
loved  always,  faithfully,  what  would  my  beauty 
matter  ? — What  do  you  think,  Clara  ?  " 

"It  is  a  dangerous  subject,"  replied  Madame  de 
Serizy. 

"Might  one  ask  of  His  Majesty,  the  King  of  the 
Sorcerers,"  continued  Madame  de  Langeais,  "when 
1  committed  the  sin  of  touching  the  axe, — I  who 
have  never  been  to  London — " 

No  so,  he  answered  with  a  mocking  laugh. 

"And  when  will  the  execution  commence?" 


344  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

Upon  which  Montriveau  coolly  drew  out  his 
watch  and  looked  at  the  hour  with  an  air  of  convic- 
tion that  was  really  frightful. 

"The  day  will  not  end  until  a  horrible  misfortune 
has  overtaken  you — " 

"I  am  not  a  child  to  be  easily  frightened,  or, 
rather,  I  am  a  child  that  knows  no  danger,"  said 
the  duchess,  "and  I  am  going  to  dance  without 
fear  on  the  verge  of  the  abyss." 

"I  am  delighted,  Madame,  to  know  that  you  have 
so  much  strength  of  mind,"  he  replied  as  he  saw 
her  go  to  take  her  place  in  the  quadrille. 

Notwithstanding  her  apparent  disdain  for  Ar- 
mand's  sinister  predictions,  the  duchess  was  a 
prey  to  mortal  terror.  The  moral  and  almost  phys- 
ical oppression  under  which  her  lover  held  her 
scarcely  ceased  when  he  left  the  ball.  Nevertheless, 
after  the  momentary  relief  of  breathing  at  her  ease, 
she  was  surprised  to  find  herself  regretting  this 
absence  of  fear,  so  eager  is  the  female  nature  for 
extremes  of  emotion.  This  regret  was  not  love,  but 
it  belonged  undoubtedly  to  the  feelings  that  lead  up 
to  it.  Then,  as  if  she  were  again  under  the  effects 
of  the  influence  which  Monsieur  de  Montriveau 
had  upon  her,  she  recalled  the  air  of  conviction 
with  which  he  had  looked  at  his  watch,  and, 
unable  to  control  her  terror,  she  left  the  ball.  It 
was  then  about  midnight.  Those  of  her  servants 
who  were  waiting  for  her  put  on  her  pelisse  and 
went  before  her  to  call  her  carriage;  once  seated  in 
it,  she  fell  very  naturally  into  a  reverie  induced  by 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  345 

Monsieur  de  Montriveau's  prediction.  When  she 
arrived  in  her  court-yard  she  entered  into  a  vesti- 
bule that  closely  resembled  that  of  her  own  hotel ; 
but  suddenly  she  perceived  that  the  stairway  was 
not  hers ;  then,  at  the  moment  when  she  turned  to 
call  her  servants,  several  men  seized  her  suddenly, 
bound  a  handkerchief  over  her  mouth,  tied  her  hand 
and  foot,  and  carried  her  away.  She  cried  out 
loudly. 

"Madame,  we  have  orders  to  kill  you  if  you  make 
a  noise,"  said  a  voice  in  her  ear. 

The  terror  of  the  duchess  was  so  great  that  after- 
wards she  could  not  in  the  least  remember  when 
or  how  she  was  transported.  When  she  recov- 
ered her  senses,  she  found  herself  lying,  bound 
hand  and  foot  with  silken  cords,  on  the  sofa  in  a 
bachelor's  chamber.  She  could  not  retain  a  cry  as 
she  encountered  the  eyes  of  Armand  de  Montriveau, 
who,  seated  quietly  in  an  arm-chair  and  wrapped 
in  his  dressing-gown,  was  smoking  a  cigar. 

"Make  no  noise,  Madame  la  Duchesse, "  he  said 
coolly,  taking  his  cigar  from  his  lips,  "I  have  a 
headache.  Besides,  I  am  about  to  unbind  you. 
But  listen  carefully  to  what  I  am  now  to  have  the 
honor  to  say  to  you." 

He  gently  loosened  the  cords  that  bound  the  feet 
of  the  duchess. 

"What  good  will  your  cries  do  you?  no  one  can 
hear  them.  You  are  too  well  bred  to  make  useless 
grimaces.  If  you  are  not  quiet,  if  you  insist  upon 
struggling  with  me,  I  will  bind  you  again  hand  and 


346  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

foot  I  believe,  however,  all  things  considered, 
that  you  will  respect  yourself  enough  to  remain 
upon  that  sofa  as  if  you  were  lying  upon  your  own, 
— cold  and  indifferent  still,  if  you  will, — You  have 
caused  me  to  shed  on  that  couch  very  many  tears 
which  I  have  hidden  from  the  eyes  of  others." 

As  Montriveau  spoke  the  duchess  cast  about  her 
that  furtive  female  glance  which  sees  all  even  when 
it  appears  most  abstracted.  She  greatly  liked  the 
appearance  of  this  room,  which  bore  a  strong 
resemblance  to  the  cell  of  a  monk.  The  character 
and  the  habits  of  the  master  pervaded  it.  No  orna- 
ment relieved  the  gray  tone  of  the  empty  walls. 
On  the  floor  was  a  green  carpet.  A  black  sofa,  a 
table  covered  with  papers,  two  large  arm-chairs,  a 
chest  of  drawers  on  which  stood  an  alarm-clock,  a 
very  low  bed  over  which  was  thrown  a  red  cloth 
with  a  Grecian  border  in  black,  all  proclaimed  the 
habits  of  a  life  reduced  to  its  simplest  needs.  A 
three-branched  candlestick  on  the  chimney-piece 
recalled  by  its  Egyptian  shape  the  immensity  of 
the  deserts  in  which  this  man  had  so  long  wandered. 
Beside  the  bed,  whose  feet,  like  the  enormous  paws 
of  a  Sphinx,  appeared  under  the  folds  of  the  drapery, 
and  the  angle  of  one  of  the  lateral  walls  of  the 
chamber,  was  a  door  hidden  by  a  green  curtain  with 
red  and  black  fringes  held  by  large  rings  to  a  pole. 
The  door  through  which  unknown  hands  had  brought 
the  duchess  had  a  similar  portiere,  held  back  by 
a  loop.  At  the  last  glance  which  the  duchess 
cast  upon  the  two  curtains  to  compare  them  she 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  347 

perceived  that  the  door  nearest  to  the  bed  was  open, 
and  that  a  ruddy  light  from  the  adjoining  room 
shone  in  a  narrow  line  at  the  foot  of  the  curtain. 
Her  curiosity  was  naturally  roused  by  this  mysteri- 
ous light  which  hardly  enabled  her  to  distinguish  in 
the  obscurity  some  strange  forms;  but  for  the  mo- 
ment she  did  not  think  that  her  danger  could  come 
from  that  direction,  and  she  wished  to  satisfy  a 
more  pressing  interest 

"Monsieur,  is  it  an  indiscretion  to  ask  of  you 
what  you  propose  to  do  with  me? "  she  said  offen- 
sively and  with  a  tone  of  cutting  mockery. 

The  duchess  believed  she  heard  the  voice  of 
exceeding  love  in  Montriveau's  words.  Besides, 
to  carry  off  a  woman,  does  not  that  necessarily 
mean  to  adore  her  ? 

"Nothing  at  all,  Madame,"  he  answered,  blowing 
away  easily  the  last  smoke  of  his  tobacco.  "You 
are  here  for  a  short  time  only.  I  wish  first  to 
explain  to  you  what  you  are,  and  what  I  am. 
When  you  are  attitudinizing  on  your  divan  in  your 
boudoir,  1  find  no  words  to  express  my  ideas.  More- 
over, in  your  house,  at  the  least  word  which  dis- 
pleases you,  you  pull  your  bell-rope,  you  cry  out 
and  put  your  lover  out  of  the  door,  as  if  he  were 
the  worst  of  outcasts.  Here,  my  mind  is  free.  Here, 
no  one  can  throw  me  out  of  doors.  Here,  you  will 
be  my  victim  for  a  few  moments,  and  you  will 
have  the  extreme  goodness  to  listen  to  me.  Fear 
nothing.  1  have  not  carried  you  off  to  utter  insults 
to  you,   or  to  obtain  from  you    by  violence  that 


348  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

which  I  have  not  been  able  to  deserve,  that  which 
you  have  not  been  willing  to  freely  grant  me. 
That  would  be  baseness.  You  may  perhaps  con- 
ceive of  rape;  I  can  not  conceive  of  it." 

He  threw,  with  a  sharp  movement,  his  cigar  into 
the  fire. 

"Madame,  the  smoke  doubtless  annoys  you?" 

He  immediately  rose,  took  from  the  fire-place  a 
warming-pan,  burnt  some  perfumes  in  it  and  puri- 
fied the  air.  The  astonishment  of  the  duchess 
could  not  be  compared  with  her  humiliation.  She 
was  in  the  power  of  this  man,  and  this  man  did 
not  intend  to  abuse  his  power.  Those  eyes,  once 
flaming  with  love,  she  now  saw  calm  and  fixed  as 
the  stars.  She  trembled.  Then,  the  terror  with 
which  Armand  inspired  her  was  augmented  by  one  of 
those  petrifying  sensations,  analogous  to  those  help- 
less and  motionless  agitations  peculiar  to  nightmares. 
She  lay  gripped  by  fear,  fancying  she  saw  the  lurid 
light  behind  the  curtain  grow  more  vivid,  as  if 
blown  by  bellows.  Suddenly,  the  glow,  becoming 
stronger,  illuminated  three  masked  men.  This  ter- 
rible appearance  disappeared  so  suddenly  that  she 
took  it  for  an  optical  illusion. 

"Madame,"  resumed  Armand,  looking  at  her  with 
contemptuous  coldness,  "a  moment,  one  only,  will 
suffice  me  to  strike  you  through  every  moment  of 
your  life,  the  only  eternity  of  which  I  myself  can 
dispose.  1  am  not  God.  Listen  to  me  attentively," 
he  said,  making  a  pause  to  give  solemnity  to  his 
words.     "Love  will  always  come  at  your  will;  you 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  349 

have  over  men  a  power  that  is  unUmited;  but  recol- 
lect that  one  day  you  called  love  to  you, — it  came 
to  you,  pure  and  honest,  as  much  so  as  it  can  be  on 
this  earth;  as  respectful  as  it  was  violent;  tender 
as  the  love  of  a  devoted  woman,  or  of  that  of  a 
mother  for  her  child;  and,  finally,  so  grand  that  it 
was  a  madness.  You  trifled  with  that  love,  you 
committed  a  crime.  Every  woman  has  a  right  to 
refuse  a  love  she  feels  she  cannot  share.  The 
man  who  loves  without  making  himself  beloved 
should  not  be  pitied,  and  has  no  cause  for  com- 
plaint. But,  Madame  la  Duchesse,to  draw  to  herself, 
in  feigning  feeling,  an  unfortunate  deprived  of  all 
natural  affection,  to  make  him  comprehend  happi- 
ness in  all  its  plenitude  only  to  tear  it  from  him ;  to 
rob  ail  his  future  of  joy;  to  kill  him,  not  only  for 
to-day  but  for  the  eternity  of  his  life,  by  poisoning 
all  his  hours  and  all  his  thoughts,  that  is  what  I 
call  a  frightful  crime!  " 

"Monsieur — " 

"I  cannot  yet  permit  you  to  answer  me.  Listen 
to  me  still.  Moreover,  I  have  certain  rights  over 
you;  though  1  only  wish  those  of  the  judge  over  the 
criminal,  in  order  to  awaken  your  conscience.  If 
you  had  no  longer  any  conscience  I  should  not 
blame  you;  but  you  are  still  so  young!  you  must 
still  feel  life  in  your  heart,  I  like  to  think  so.  if  I 
believe  you  sufficiently  depraved  to  commit  a  crime 
unpunishable  by  law  I  do  not  take  you  to  be  so 
degraded  as  not  to  comprehend  the  meaning  of  my 
words.     I  resume." 


350  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

At  this  moment  the  duchess  heard  the  dull 
sound  of  a  bellows  with  which  the  unknown,  of 
whom  she  had  had  a  glimpse,  were  doubtless  stir- 
ring the  fire,  the  light  of  which  was  thrown  on 
the  curtain;  but  the  flaming  glance  of  Montriveau 
compelled  her  to  remain  quiet  and  palpitating,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  before  him.  However  great  might  be 
her  curiosity,  the  fire  of  his  words  interested  her 
still  more  than  the  crackling  voice  of  that  mysteri- 
ous flame. 


"Madame,"  he  continued  after  a  pause,  "when 
in  Paris  the  executioner  puts  his  hand  upon  a  poor 
assassin  and  stretches  him  upon  the  plank  where 
the  law  wills  that  an  assassin  shall  lie  to  lose  his 
head, — you  know,  the  newspapers  inform  of  it  both 
the  rich  and  the  poor,  the  first,  that  they  may  sleep 
in  peace,  and  the  second,  that  they  may  take  warn- 
ing. Well,  then,  you  who  are  religious  and  even 
somewhat  devout,  you  go  to  offer  masses  for  the 
soul  of  that  man, — and  yet  you  are  of  his  family, 
you  are  the  elder  branch  of  it  You  can  remain 
seated  in  peace,  you  can  exist  happy  and  without 
care.  Driven  by  poverty  or  by  rage,  your  brother 
of  the  bagnio  has  only  killed  a  man;  and  you!  you 
have  killed  the  happiness  of  a  man,  his  best  life, 
his  dearest  beliefs.  The  other  has  but  simply 
waited  for  his  victim;  he  killed  him  despite  him- 
self, notwithstanding  his  fear  of  the  guillotine;  but 
you! — you  have  heaped  up  all  the  crimes  of  your 
weakness  upon  an  innocent  strength ;  you  have 
tamed  your  sufferer  in  order  the  better  to  devour 
his  heart;  you  have  baited  him  with  caresses;  you 
have  not  omitted  one  of  those  which  could  make 
him  think  of,  dream  of,  desire  the  delights  of  love. 
You  have  demanded  a  thousand  sacrifices  of  him  to 
refuse  him  everything.  You  have  made  him  see 
the  light  strongly  before  putting  out  his  eyes.     A 

(351) 


352  LA  DUCHESSE   DE  LANGEAIS 

noble  courage !  Such  infamies  are  luxuries  which 
are  not  understood  by  those  bourgeoises  at  whom 
you  sneer.  They  know  how  to  give  themselves 
and  to  forgive ;  they  know  how  to  love  and  to  suffer. 
They  make  us  all  little  by  the  grandeur  of  their 
devotion.  As  we  go  higher  in  society  we  find  just 
as  much  mud  as  there  is  at  the  bottom ;  only  it  is 
hardened  and  gilded.  Yes,  to  find  perfection  in  the 
ignoble  we  must  look  for  a  fine  education,  a  great 
name,  a  pretty  woman,  a  duchess.  To  fall  to  the 
bottom  of  all  it  is  necessary  to  be  at  the  top  of  all. 
1  express  myself  badly  to  you,  I  still  suffer  too 
much  from  the  wounds  which  you  have  caused  me ; 
but  do  not  fear  that  I  shall  complain !  No.  My 
words  are  the  expression  of  no  personal  hope,  and 
contain  no  bitterness.  Rest  assured,  Madame,  I 
pardon  you,  and  this  pardon  is  so  complete  that  you 
cannot  complain  of  coming  to  seek  it  against  your 
will. — Only,  you  may  make  suffer  other  hearts  as 
confiding  as  mine,  and  I  should  spare  them  their 
sufferings.  You  have  therefore  inspired  me  with  a 
thought  of  justice.  Expiate  your  fault  here  below. 
God  will  pardon  you  perhaps,  I  hope  so,  but  He  is 
implacable,  and  He  will  strike  you." 

At  these  words  the  eyes  of  this  humbled,  tortured 
woman  filled  with  tears. 

"Why  do  you  weep?  Be  faithful  to  your  own 
nature.  You  have  watched  without  feeling  the  tor- 
tures of  the  heart  you  have  broken.  Enough, 
Madame,  console  yourself.  I  can  no  longer  suffer. 
Others  may  tell  you  that  you  have  given  them  life; 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  353 

for  myself  1  say  to  you  with  delight  that  you  have 
given  me  annihilation.  Perhaps  you  have  guessed 
that  I  do  not  belong  to  myself,  that  I  should  live  for 
my  friends,  and  that  I  could  then  support  with  them 
the  coldness  of  death  and  the  griefs  of  life.  Would 
you  have  so  much  kindness?  would  you  be  like  the 
tigers  of  the  desert  who  make  the  wound  and  then 
lick  it?" 

The  duchess  melted  into  tears. 

"Spare  yourself  those  tears,  Madame.  If  I  be- 
lieved in  them,  it  would  be  to  be  suspicious  of 
them.  Are  they,  or  are  they  not,  one  of  your  arti- 
fices? After  all  those  which  you  have  employed, 
how  could  I  believe  that  there  can  be  anything 
truthful  in  you?  Nothing  in  you  has  henceforth 
the  power  to  move  me.     1  have  said  all. " 

Madame  de  Langeais  rose  with  a  movement  that 
was  at  once  full  of  nobility  and  of  humility. 

"You  have  the  right  to  treat  me  harshly,"  she 
said,  holding  out  to  him  a  hand  which  he  did  not 
take,  "your  words  are  not  yet  harsh  enough,  and  I 
deserve  this  punishment." 

"To  punish  you,  Madame,  I!  but  to  punish,  is 
not  that  to  love?  Expect  nothing  from  me  that 
resembles  feeling.  I  might,  indeed,  on  my  own 
behalf  be  accuser  and  judge,  decree  and  executioner ; 
but  no.  I  shall  accomplish  presently  a  duty,  but 
nowise  a  desire  for  vengeance.  The  cruelest  ven- 
geance is,  to  my  thinking,  the  disdain  of  a  possi- 
ble vengeance.  Who  knows?  perhaps  I  shall  be 
the  minister  of  your  pleasures.  Henceforward,  in 
23 


354  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

wearing  so  elegantly  the  sad  livery  in  which  society 
clothes  its  criminals,  perhaps  you  may  be  compelled 
to  have  their  integrity.    And  then,  you  will  love! " 

The  duchess  listened  with  a  submission  that  was 
neither  feigned  nor  artfully  calculated;  she  spoke 
only  after  an  interval  of  silence. 

"Armand,"  she  said,  "it  seemed  to  me  that  in 
resisting  love  I  obeyed  the  chaste  instincts  of  a 
woman,  and  it  was  not  from  you  that  I  expected 
such  reproaches.  You  take  all  my  weaknesses 
and  impute  them  to  me  as  crimes.  How  is  it  that 
you  could  not  see  that  I  might  be  drawn  beyond  my 
duties  by  all  the  curiosities  of  love,  and  that,  on 
the  morrow,  I  would  be  grieved,  distressed  at  hav- 
ing gone  so  far?  Alas!  it  was  sinning  through 
ignorance.  There  was,  I  swear  to  you,  as  much  of 
good  faith  in  my  faults  as  in  my  remorse.  My  cruel- 
ties betrayed  much  more  love  than  my  yieldings 
bore  witness  to.  And,  moreover,  of  what  is  it  you 
complain  ?  The  gift  of  my  heart  did  not  suffice  you, 
you  demanded  brutally  that  of  my  person — " 

"Brutally!"  exclaimed  Monsieur  de  Montriveau. 

Then  he  said  within  himself: 

"If  I  let  myself  be  dragged  into  a  war  of  words,  I 
am  lost." 

"Yes,  you  came  to  me  as  though  I  were  one  of 
those  bad  women,  without  respect,  with  none  of  the 
courtesies  of  love.  Had  I  not  the  right  to  pause,  to 
reflect.!*  Well,  I  have  reflected.  The  unseemliness 
of  your  conduct  is  excusable, — love  is  its  motive; 
let  me  think  so  and  justify  you  to  my  own  heart 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  355 

Ah!  well,  Armand,  at  the  very  moment  when,  this 
evening,  you  were  predicting  to  me  misfortune,  I — 
I  was  believing  in  our  happiness.  Yes,  1  had  confi- 
dence in  that  noble  and  proud  character  of  which 
you  had  given  me  so  many  proofs. — And  I  was  all 
thine,"  she  added,  bending  towards  his  ear.  "Yes, 
I  had  I  know  not  what  desire  to  give  happiness  to  a 
man  so  sorely  tried  by  adversity.  Master  for  mas- 
ter, I  wished  for  a  noble  man.  The  higher  I  felt 
myself,  the  less  did  I  wish  to  descend.  Trusting 
in  thee  I  thought  I  saw  a  lifetime  of  love  at  the  mo- 
ment when  thou  didst  show  me  death.— Strength  is 
never  without  mercy.  My  friend,  thou  art  too 
strong  to  be  cruel  to  a  poor  woman  who  loves  thee. 
If  I  had  faults,  can  I  not  obtain  forgiveness.?  can  1 
not  repair  them  ?  Repentance  is  the  grace  of  love, 
1  would  be  gracious  to  thee.  Could  I  alone  of  all 
women  be  without  their  uncertainties,  their  fears, 
their  timidity  which  it  is  so  natural  to  feel  when 
one  binds  one's  self  for  life,  and  when  you  break  so 
easily  bonds  of  this  sort?  Those  bourgeoises,  to 
whom  you  compare  me,  give  themselves,  but  they 
struggle.  Well,  I  have  struggled,  but  I  am  here — . 
Oh!  God!  he  will  not  hear  me!"  she  cried,  inter- 
rupting herself. 

.She  wrung  her  hands  crying: 
/   "But  I  love  thee!  but  I  am  thine!  " 
^      She  fell  at  Armand's  feet. 
""■"Thine!     Thine!     My  only,  my  sole  master !  " 

"Madame,"  said  Armand,  offering  to  raise  her, 
^'Antoinette  can   no  longer  save  the  Duchesse  de 


356  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

Langeais.  I  trust  neither  the  one  nor  the  other. 
You  give  yourself  to-day,  you  will  refuse  yourself 
perhaps  to-morrow.  No  power,  neither  in  heaven 
nor  on  the  earth,  can  assure  me  of  the  gentle  fidelity 
of  your  love.  The  pledges  of  it  were  for  the  past; 
our  past  has  gone  forever." 

At  this  moment  a  light  blazed  up  so  vividly  that 
the  duchess  involuntarily  turned  her  head  towards 
the  portiere,  and  saw  again  distinctly  the  three 
masked  men. 

"Armand,"  she  said,  "I  would  not  think  ill  of 
you.  Why  are  those  men  here?  What  are  you 
preparing  to  do  to  me  ?  " 

"Those  men  are  as  discreet  as  I  shall  be  myself 
on  all  that  passes  here,"  he  said.  "See  in  them 
only  my  arms  and  my  heart.  One  of  them  is  a 
surgeon — " 

"A  surgeon,"  she  said.  "Armand,  my  friend, 
uncertainty  is  the  cruelest  of  sufferings.  Speak, 
then,  tell  me  if  you  wish  my  life.'  I  will  give  it  to 
you,  you  need  not  take  it — " 

"You  have  not  then  understood  me?"  said  Mon- 
triveau.  "Did  I  not  speak  to  you  of  justice?  To 
quiet  your  fears,"  he  added,  coldly,  taking  up  a 
piece  of  steel  which  lay  on  the  table,  "1  will  ex- 
plain to  you  what  I  have  decided  to  do  to  you." 

He  showed  her  a  cross  of  two  bars  fastened  to 
the  end  of  a  steel  handle. 

"Two  of  my  friends  are  heating  at  this  moment 
a  cross  like  this  one.  We  shall  apply  it  to  your 
forehead,  there,  between  the  two  eyes,  so  that  you 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  357 

cannot  hide  it  with  diamonds  and  thus  escape  the 
inquiries  of  the  world.     You  will  then  bear  upon  j 
your   brow   the    infamous   mark    branded    on   the  ; 
shoulder  of  your  brothers  the  convicts.     The  pain  ' 
will  be  slight,   but  I  feared  some  nervous  crisis,  or 
resistance — . " 

"Resistance?"  she  said,  striking  her  hands  joy- 
fully together.  "No,  no,  I  would  that  all  the  world 
were  here  to  see  it.  Ah  !  my  Armand,  mark,  mark 
quickly  thy  creature  as  a  poor  little  thing  of  thine! 
Thou  didst  demand  pledges  of  my  love,  they  are  all 
here  in  one.  Ah!  1  see  only  mercy  and  pardon, 
only  an  everlasting  happiness  in  thy  vengeance — . 
When  thou  hast  thus  marked  a  woman  for  thine 
own,  when  thou  wilt  have  a  servile  soul  which  will 
bear  thy  red  cipher,  ah!  then  thou  canst  never 
abandon  it,  thou  wilt  be  forever  mine.  In  isolating 
me  from  the  world  thou  wilt  be  charged  with  my 
happiness,  under  penalty  of  being  a  coward,  and  I 
know  thee  noble,  great !  But  the  woman  who  loves 
will  always  mark  herself — .  Come,  messieurs, 
enter  and  mark,  mark  the  Duchesse  de  Langeais. 
She  belongs  to  Monsieur  de  Montriveau  forever. 
Enter  quickly,  and  all  of  you,  my  forehead  burns 
hotter  than  your  iron." 

Armand  turned  quickly  that  he  might  not  see  the 
duchess  palpitating,  kneeling  before  him.  He 
uttered  a  word  which  caused  his  three  friends  to 
disappear.  Women  accustomed  to  the  life  of  salons 
understand  the  possibilities  of  mirrors.  Thus  the 
duchess,  eager  to  read  clearly  Armand's  heart,  was 


358  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

all  eyes.  Armand  who  did  not  think  of  his  mirror 
thus  let  her  see  two  tears  quickly  wiped  away. 
All  the  future  of  the  duchess  was  in  those  two  tears. 
When  he  turned  to  lift  her,  he  found  her  standing, 
she  thought  herself  loved.  Consequently  the  shock 
was  terrible  when  she  heard  Montriveau  say,  with 
all  that  firmness  which  she  herself  had  so  often 
used  when  she  was  trifling  with  him : 

"I  grant  you  grace,  Madame.  You  may  believe 
me,  this  scene  will  be  as  if  it  had  never  taken 
place.  But  here,  let  us  say  farewell.  I  like  to 
believe  that  you  were  sincere  in  your  boudoir  in 
your  seductions,  sincere  here  in  the  outpouring  of 
your  heart.  Farewell.  I  no  longer  have  any  faith. 
You  would  torment  me  still,  you  would  be  always 
the  duchess,  and — .  But  farewell,  we  shall  never 
understand  each  other — .  What  do  you  desire,  at 
present.''"  he  said,  changing  his  tone  to  that  of  a 
master  of  ceremonies.  "Will  you  return  home  or 
go  back  to  Madame  de  Serizy's  ball  ?  I  have  em- 
ployed all  my  power  to  protect  your  reputation. 
Neither  your  servants  nor  the  world  can  ever  know 
of  what  has  passed  between  us  in  the  last  quarter 
of  an  hour.  Your  servants  think  you  still  at  the 
ball ;  your  carriage  has  not  yet  left  Madame  de 
Serizy's  court-yard;  your  coupe  is  in  your  own. 
Where  would  you  like  to  go?" 

"What  would  you  advise,  Armand?" 

"There  is  no  Armand  here,  Madame  la  Duchesse. 
We  are  strangers  to  each  other." 

"Take  me  to  the  ball,  then,"  she  said,  curious 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  359 

still  to  put  his  power  to  the  proof.  "Throw  back 
into  the  hell  of  the  world  a  creature  who  has  suffered 
there,  and  who  will  continue  to  suffer  there,  if  for 
her  there  is  no  longer  any  happiness.  Oh !  my 
friend,  1  do  love  you  as  much  as  your  bourgeoises 
can  love !  I  love  you  enough  to  throw  myself  on 
your  neck  at  the  ball,  before  all  the  world,  if  you 
asked  it.  That  horrible  world  has  not  corrupted  me. 
See,  1  am  young  and  I  am  going  to  renew  my  youth 
still  more.  Yes,  i  am  a  child,  thy  child,  thou  hast 
created  me.    Oh,  do  not  banish  me  from  my  Eden  1  " 

Armand  made  a  gesture. 

"Ah!  if  I  must  go,  let  me  then  take  something 
with  me  from  here,  a  trifle, — this,  to  put  upon  my 
heart  at  night,"  she  said,  picking  up  one  of  his 
gloves  and  folding  it  in  her  handkerchief — .  "No," 
she  continued,  "I  am  not  of  that  world  of  depraved 
women;  thou  dost  not  know  it,  and  so  thou  canst 
not  appreciate  me ;  know  it  well !  some  of  them  f^ive 
themselves  for  money;  others  yield  to  presents;  all 
that  is  vile !  Ah !  I  would  wish  to  be  a  simple  bour- 
geoise,  a  work-woman,  if  thou  wouldst  love  better 
a  woman  who  is  below  thee  than  one  whose  devo- 
tion is  allied  with  human  grandeur.  Ah!  my 
Armand,  there  are  among  us  women  who  are  noble, 
grand,  chaste  and  pure,  and  then  they  are  deli- 
cious. I  would  wish  to  possess  all  noble  qualities  to 
sacrifice  them  all  to  thee ;  misfortune  made  me  duch- 
ess; I  would  I  had  been  born  near  the  throne  that  I 
might  sacrifice  everything  for  thee.  I  would  be 
grisette  for  thee  and  queen  for  all  others." 


360  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

He  listened,  moistening  a  cigar. 

"When  you  are  ready  to  go,"  he  said,  "you  will 
let  me  know — " 

"But  I  desire  to  remain." 

"That  is  another  thing,"  said  he. 

"Look,  this  one  is  ill-made,"  she  cried,  taking  a 
cigar  and  putting  it  eagerly  to  her  mouth,  where  the 
lips  of  Armand  had  touched  it. 

"Thou  wouldst  smoke  ?  "  he  said  to  her 

"Oh !  what  would  I  not  do  to  please  thee  ?  " 

"Well  then,  go,  Madame — " 

"I  obey,"  she  answered,  weeping. 

"It  will  be  necessary  to  cover  your  face  that  you 
may  not  see  the  way  by  which  you  have  to  pass." 

"I  am  ready,  Armand,"  she  said,  blindfolding 
herself. 

"Can  you  see? " 

"No." 

He  knelt  softly  at  her  feet. 

"Ah!  I  hear  thee,"  she  said  with  a  charming 
gesture,  thinking  that  his  feigned  harshness  was 
about  to  cease. 

He  offered  to  kiss  her  lips,  she  bent  towards  him. 

"You  can  see,  Madame." 

"But  I  am  a  little  curious." 

"You  deceive  me  then,  still  ?  " 

"Ah !  "  she  said,  with  the  anger  of  an  honor  mis- 
understood, "take  off  this  handkerchief  and  lead 
me.  Monsieur,  I  shall  not  open  my  eyes." 

Armand,  convinced  of  her  integrity  by  this  cry, 
conducted  the  duchess,   who,  faithful  to  her  word. 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  361 

made  herself  nobly  blind;  but  as  he  held  her 
hand  with  paternal  care  to  show  her  where  now  to 
ascend  and  now  to  descend,  he  studied  the  quivering 
pulsations  which  agitated  the  heart  of  this  woman, 
so  surely  conquered  by  a  true  love.  Madame  de 
Langeais,  happy  in  being  able  to  speak  to  him  thus, 
pleased  herself  by  telling  him  all,  but  he  remained 
inflexible;  and  when  her  hand  questioned  his,  his 
gave  no  answering  pressure.  Finally,  after  having 
thus  proceeded  some  time  together,  Armand  told 
her  to  step  forward,  she  did  so  and  perceived  that 
he  held  back  her  dress  that  it  might  not  brush 
against  the  walls  of  some  opening,  doubtless  nar- 
row. Madame  de  Langeais  was  touched  by  this 
care,  it  betrayed  a  little  lingering  love;  but  it  was 
in  some  sort  Montriveau's  farewell,  for  he  left  her 
without  a  word.  When  she  felt  herself  in  a  warm 
atmosphere,  she  opened  her  eyes.  She  found  her- 
self alone,  before  the  chimney-piece  of  the  boudoir 
of  the  Comtesse  de  Serizy.  Her  first  care  was  to 
arrange  the  disorder  of  her  toilet;  she  promptly 
readjusted  her  dress  and  reestablished  the  arrange- 
ment of  her  coiffure. 

"Well,  my  dear  Antoinette,  we  have  been  look- 
ing for  you  everywhere,"  said  the  countess,  opening 
the  door  of  the  boudoir. 

"I  came  here  for  a  little  fresh  air,"  she  said,  "it 
is  so  intolerably  warm  in  the  salon." 

"It  was  thought  you  had  left;  but  my  brother 
Ronquerolles  told  me  that  he  had  seen  your  servants 
still  waiting  for  you." 


362  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

"I  am  very  tired,  my  dear,  let  me  rest  here  a 
moment." 

And  the  duchess  seated  herself  on  the  divan. 

"What  is  the  matter,?  You  are  trembling  all 
over! " 

The  Marquis  de  Ronquerolles  entered. 

"I  fear,  Madame  la  Duchesse,  that  some  accident 
may  happen  to  you.  I  have  just  seen  your  coach- 
man as  drunk  as  the  '  Twenty-two  Cantons.'  " 

The  duchess  did  not  answer,  she  was  looking  at 
the  chimney,  the  mirrors,  striving  to  detect  the 
opening  through  which  she  had  passed;  then  she 
experienced  an  extraordinary  sensation  in  finding 
herself  again  in  the  midst  of  the  gaieties  of  a  ball 
after  the  terrible  scene  which  had  just  changed  for- 
ever the  course  of  her  life.  She  began  to  tremble 
violently. 

"My  nerves  are  shaken  by  that  prediction  which 
Monsieur  de  Montriveau  made  me  here.  Although 
it  was  a  jest,  I  am  going  home  to  see  if  his  London 
axe  will  pursue  me  in  my  dreams — .  Adieu  then, 
dear. — Adieu,  Monsieur  le  Marquis." 

She  traversed  the  ball-room,  where  she  was 
detained  by  flatterers  whom  she  looked  at  with 
pity.  She  felt  how  small  her  world  was  when  she, 
its  queen,  was  thus  humbled  and  abased.  And  oh ! 
what  were  all  these  men  compared  with  him  whom 
she  truly  loved  and  whose  character  had  resumed 
the  gigantic  proportions  momentarily  lessened  by 
her,  but  which  she  now  perhaps  unduly  exagger- 
ated.    She  could  not  forbear  looking  at  that  one  of 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  363 

her  servants  who  had  accompanied  her,  and  found 
him  very  sleepy. 

"You  have  not  gone  away  from  here  this  even- 
ing?" she  asked  him. 

"No,  Madame." 

As  she  got  into  her  carriage  she  saw,  in  fact, 
that  her  coachman  was  in  a  state  of  intoxication  at 
which  she  would  have  been  frightened  under  any 
other  circumstances;  but  the  great  shocks  of  life 
destroy  all  vulgar  fears.  However,  she  reached 
home  without  accident;  but  she  felt  herself  changed, 
and  in  the  grasp  of  entirely  new  emotions.  For 
her  there  was  henceforth  but  one  man  in  the  world, 
that  is  to  say,  for  him  only  did  she  desire  hence- 
forth to  have  some  value.  If  physiologists  can 
promptly  define  love  by  its  connection  with  the 
laws  of  nature,  moralists  fmd  much  more  difficulty 
in  explaining  it  when  they  wish  to  consider  it  in 
all  the  developments  given  to  it  by  society.  Never- 
theless there  exists,  in  spite  of  the  heresies  of  the 
thousand  sects  that  divide  the  church  of  love,  a 
straight  and  clear-cut  line  passing  sharply  through 
their  doctrines,  a  line  which  discussions  can  never 
bend  and  the  inflexible  application  of  which  ex- 
plains the  crisis  into  which,  like  almost  all  other 
women,  the  Duchesse  de  Langeais  was  now  plunged. 
She  did  not  love  as  yet,  she  had  a  passion.   — ~^ 


I 


Love  and  passion  are  two  different  states  of  the 
soul  wiiich  poets  and  men  of  tiie  world,  philosophers 
and  fools,  continually  confound.  Love  carries  with 
it  a  mutuality  of  feeling,  a  certainty  of  joys  that 
nothing  can  alter,  and  a  too  constant  exchange  of  / 
pleasures,  a  too  complete  adherence  between  hearts, 
not  to  exclude  all  jealousy.  Possession  is  then  a 
means  and  not  an  end;  an  infidelity  may  cause 
suffering  but  not  detachment;  the  soul  is  not  more, 
nor  is  it  less,  ardent  or  agitated,  it  is  ceaselessly 
happy;  in  short,  desire,  extended  by  a  divine 
breath  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the  immensity 
of  time,  takes  on  for  us  but  one  tint, — life  is  as 
blue  as  the  pure  sky.  Passion  is  the  presenti- 
ment of  love  and  of  its  infinitudes,  to  which  all 
suffering  souls  aspire.  Passion  is  a  hope  which 
may  be  deceived.  Passion  signifies  at  once  suffer- 
ing and  transition ;  passion  ceases  when  hope  is 
dead.  Men  and  women  can  without  dishonoring 
themselves  feel  more  than  one  passion;  it  is  so 
natural  to  reach  out  towards  happiness!  but  there 
is  in  life  only  one  love.  All  discussions,  written  or 
spoken,  upon  the  sentiments,  may  then  be  resumed 
by  these  two  questions:  "Is  it  a  passion?  Is  it 
love?  "  As  love  can  not  exist  without  the  intimate  ' 
knowledge  of  the  pleasures  which  perpetuate  it, 
the  duchess  was  now  under  the  yoke  of  a  passion; 

(365) 


366  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

thus  she  was  experiencing  the  consuming  agita- 
tions, the  involuntary  calculations,  the  parching 
desires,  in  short,  all  that  is  expressed  by  the  word 
passion:  she  suffered.  Amid  these  troubles  of  her 
soul,  rose  the  tumult  stirred  up  by  her  vanity,  by 
her  self-love,  by  her  pride  or  by  her  haughtiness, — 
all  these  varieties  of  egotism  are  allied  to  each 
other.  She  had  said  to  a  man:  "I  love  thee,  I  am 
thine!"  The  Duchesse  de  Langeais,  could  she 
really  have  uttered  these  words  in  vain.?  Either 
she  must  be  loved  or  abdicate  her  role  in  society. 
Conscious  now  of  the  solitude  of  her  voluptuous 
bed,  in  which  voluptuousness  had  not  yet  set  his 
burning  feet,  she  writhed  and  twisted  in  it,  repeat- 
ing to  herself: 

"I  wish  to  be  loved!  " 

And  the  faith  she  still  kept  in  herself  gave  her 
hopes  of  success.  The  duchess  was  piqued,  the 
vain  Parisian  woman  was  humiliated,  the  true 
woman  had  glimpses  of  happiness,  and  her  imagina- 
tion, avenging  all  the  time  which  nature  had  caused 
her  to  lose,  amused  itself  by  making  flame  before 
her  the  inextinguishable  fires  of  pleasure.  She  well 
nigh  attained  to  the  sensations  of  love;  for,  in  the 
doubt  of  being  loved  which  stung  her,  she  found 
happiness  in  saying  to  herself:  "I  love  him!" 
God  and  the  world,  she  had  a  strong  desire  to  tram- 
ple them  under  her  feet.  Montriveau  was  now  her 
religion.  She  passed  the  following  day  in  a  species 
of  moral  numbness  mixed  with  bodily  agitations 
that  nothing  can  express.     She  tore  up  as  many 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  367 

letters  as  she  wrote,  and  made  a  thousand  impossi- 
ble conjectures.  At  the  hour  in  which  Montriveau 
formerly  came  she  tried  to  believe  that  he  would 
arrive,  and  she  took  pleasure  in  waiting  for  him. 
Her  whole  being  was  concentrated  in  the  single 
sense  of  hearing.  She  closed  her  eyes  at  times 
and  endeavored  to  listen  through  space.  Then  she 
wished  for  the  power  of  annihilating  all  obstacles 
between  herself  and  her  lover,  so  that  she  might 
obtain  that  absolute  silence  which  allows  sound  to 
reach  us  from  enormous  distances.  In  this  concen- 
tration of  her  mind  the  ticking  of  her  clock  was  dis- 
tracting to  her,  it  was  so  like  a  sinister  chatter  that 
she  stopped  it.     Midnight  sounded  from  the  salon. 

"My  God,"  she  said  to  herself,  "to  see  him  here, 
that  would  be  happiness.  And  yet  he  came  for- 
merly drawn  by  desire.  His  voice  filled  this 
boudoir.     And  now,  nothing!" 

Remembering  those  scenes  of  coquetry  that  she 
had  played,  and  which  had  driven  him  from  her, 
tears  of  despair  flowed  down  her  cheeks  for  a  long 
time. 

"Madame  la  Duchesse  is  perhaps  not  aware  that 
it  is  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,"  said  her  maid,  "I 
thought  that  Madame  was  indisposed." 

"Yes,  I  am  going  to  bed;  but  remember,  Suzette," 
said  Madame  de  Langeais,  wiping  away  her  tears, 
"never  to  enter  my  room  unless  I  ring;  I  shall  not 
tell  you  again." 

For  a  week  Madame  de  Langeais  went  to  all 
the  houses  where  she  hoped  to  meet  Monsieur  de 


368  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

Montriveau.  Contrary  to  her  custom,  she  went 
early  and  came  away  late;  she  gave  up  dancing 
and  played  cards.  Useless  attempts !  she  could  not 
succeed  in  seeing  Armand,  whose  name  she  no 
longer  dared  to  pronounce.  However,  one  evening 
in  a  moment  of  desperation  she  said  to  Madame  de 
Serizy  with  as  much  indifference  as  she  could  as- 
sume: 

"Have  you  quarreled  with  Monsieur  de  Mon- 
triveau?    I  no  longer  see  him  in  your  house." 

"Why,  he  no  longer  comes  here,"  replied  the 
countess,  laughing.  "Moreover,  he  is  not  seen  any- 
where, he  is  doubtless  occupied  with  some  woman." 

"I  thought,"  said  the  duchess,  gently,  "that  the 
Marquis  de  Ronquerolles  was  one  of  his  friends — " 

"I  never  heard  my  brother  say  that  he  even 
knew  him." 

Madame  de  Langeais  made  no  reply.  Madame 
de  Serizy  thought  that  she  could  now  with  impunity 
lash  a  discreet  friendship  which  had  so  long  been 
bitter  to  her,  and  she  resumed : 

"You  regret,  then,  that  gloomy  individual?  I 
have  heard  shocking  things  said  about  him, — wound 
him,  and  he  never  returns,  never  forgives;  love 
him,  and  he  will  put  you  in  chains.  And  to  every- 
thing which  I  have  said  about  him  one  of  those  who 
laud  him  to  the  skies  replies  to  me  only  with  this 
one  word:  'He  knows  how  to  love!'  They  never 
grow  tired  of  repeating  tome:  'Montriveau  would 
quit  everything  for  his  friend,  his  is  an  immense 
soul. '    Ah,  bah !  society  does  not  require  such  grand^ 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  369 

souls.  Men  of  that  character  are  all  very  well 
among  each  other,  let  them  stay  there,  and  leave 
us  to  our  own  pretty  pettinesses.  What  is  your 
opinion,  Antoinette?" 

In  spite  of  her  worldly  self-possession  the  duchess 
seemed  agitated;  but  she  replied,  nevertheless, 
with  an  ease  of  manner  that  deceived  her  friend: 

"I  am  really  sorry  not  to  see  him  any  more,  I 
took  a  great  interest  in  him  and  would  have  given 
him  a  sincere  friendship.  Even  if  you  should  think 
me  absurd,  dear  friend,  I  love  the  nobler  natures. 
To  give  yourself  to  a  fool,  is  not  that  to  admit  dis- 
tinctly that  one  has  only  senses?" 

Madame  de  Serizy  had  never  distinguished  any 
but  commonplace  men,  and  was  at  this  moment 
beloved  by  a  handsome  fop,  the  Marquis  d'Aigle- 
mont. 

The  countess  made  her  visit  very  brief,  it  may 
be  believed.  Madame  de  Langeais,  seeing  some 
hope  in  the  complete  retreat  of  Armand  from  the 
world,  wrote  him  immediately,  a  tender  and  hum- 
ble letter  which  should  bring  him  back  to  her  if  he 
still  loved  her.  She  sent  it  the  next  day  by  her 
valet  de  chambre,  and  when  the  man  returned  she 
asked  him  if  he  had  given  it  to  Montriveau  himself; 
at  his  affirmative  reply  she  could  not  repress  an 
'Involuntary  movement  of  joy.  Armand  was  in 
Paris,  he  was  there  alone,  at  home,  not  going  out 
in  the  world!  She  was  then  loved.  During  all 
that  day  she  waited  for  an  answer,  and  no  answer 
came.  In  the  midst  of  the  reawakened  agitations 
24 


370  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

renewed  by  her  impatience  Antoinette  found  con- 
stant reasons  for  this  delay, — Armand  was  hesitat- 
ing, his  reply  would  come  by  post;  but  in  the  even- 
ing she  could  no  longer  deceive  herself.  A  frightful 
day,  a  tumult  of  sufferings  which  brought  pleasure, 
of  palpitations  which  crushed  life,  heart  excesses 
which  shortened  life.  The  next  day,  she  sent  to 
Armand  for  a  reply. 

"Monsieur  le  Marquis  sends  word  that  he  will 
come  to  see  Madame  la  Duchesse, "  answered  Julien. 

She  turned  away  so  that  her  happiness  might  not 
be  seen,  she  threw  herself  on  her  sofa  to  give  way 
to  her  first  emotions. 

"He  is  coming! " 

This  thought  rent  her  soul.  Unhappy,  indeed, 
are  they  for  whom  such  waiting  is  not  the  most 
horrible  of  tempests  and  the  fecundation  of  the 
sweetest  pleasures,  they  are  devoid  of  that  clear 
flame  which  reveals  the  images  of  all  things  and 
doubles  nature  for  us  by  presenting  us  with  the 
pure  essence  of  desired  objects  as  well  as  their 
actual  reality.  In  love,  to  wait,  is  it  not  to  con- 
stantly exhaust  a  certain  hope,  to  deliver  one's  self 
to  the  terrible  flail  of  passion,  happy  without  the 
disillusions  of  the  truth?  The  constant  emanation 
of  strength  and  of  desire,  expectation,  is  it  not  to 
the  human  soul  what  their  perfumed  exhalations 
are  to  certain  flowers?  We  leave  the  gorgeous  and 
sterile  colors  of  the  coreopsis  or  the  tulip  to  breathe 
the  perfumed  thoughts  of  the  orange  flower  and  the 
volkameria, — two  flowers  which  their  native  lands 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  37I 

have  likened  involuntarily  to  youthful  fiancees,  full 
of  love,  lovely  in  their  past,  lovely  in  their  future. 

The  duchess  learned  the  joys  of  her  new  life  as 
she  felt,  with  a  species  of  intoxication,  the  scourg- 
ings  of  love;  then,  with  the  change  of  her  feelings, 
she  found  new  vistas  and  nobler  meanings  in  the 
things  of  life.  As  she  hastened  to  her  dressing- 
room  she  understood  for  the  first  time  the  true  value 
of  the  refinements  of  the  toilet,  the  delicate  minute 
cares  of  the  person,  when  dictated  by  love  and  not 
by  vanity;  already  these  adornments  were  aiding 
her  to  bear  the  burden  of  suspense.  Her  toilet  fin- 
ished, she  fell  back  into  excessive  agitation,  into 
the  nervous  horrors  of  that  dread  power  which 
throws  all  our  ideas  into  a  state  of  fermentation  and 
which  is  perhaps  only  a  malady  the  sufferings  of 
which  are  dear  to  us.  The  duchess  was  dressed 
and  waiting  by  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon;  Mon- 
sieur de  Montriveau  had  not  yet  arrived  at  half-past 
eleven  at  night.  To  explain  the  anguish  of  this 
woman  who  might  be  called  the  spoiled  child  of 
civilization  we  should  need  to  tell  how  much  poetry 
the  heart  can  concentrate  into  one  thought,  to  weigh 
the  force  exhaled  by  the  soul  at  the  sound  of  a  bell, 
or  to  measure  the  vital  force  lost  by  the  prostration 
caused  by  a  carriage  which  rolls  away  and  does  not 
stop. 

"Can  he  be  trifling  with  me? "  she  asked  herself 
as  she  heard  the  clock  strike  midnight. 

She  turned  pale,    her  teeth  chattered,   and  she 
struck  her  hands  together  as  she  sprang  up  quivering 


372  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

in  that  boudoir  where  formerly  she  remembered 
he  had  come  unasked.  Then  she  resigned  herself. 
Had  she  not  forced  him  to  turn  pale  and  quiver 
under  the  cutting  darts  of  her  irony.!"  Madame  de 
Langeais  now  learned  the  miseries  of  a  woman's 
destiny,  who,  deprived  of  all  those  means  of  action 
which  men  possess,  can  only  wait  when  she  loves. 
To  seek  her  lover  is  a  fault  which  few  men  will 
pardon.  The  greater  number  of  them  see  degrada- 
tion in  that  celestial  flattery ;  but  Armand  had  a 
great  soul,  and  he  should  be  among  the  lesser  num- 
ber of  those  men  who  know  how  to  reward  such 
excess  of  love  by  an  eternal  love. 

"Ah!  well,  1  will  go,"  she  said  to  herself,  tossing 
sleepless  on  her  bed,  "I  will  go  to  him,  I  will  offer 
him  my  hand  and  never  weary  of  offering  it  to  him. 
A  superior  man  will  see  in  every  step  which  a 
woman  takes  toward  him  a  promise  of  love  and  of 
constancy.  Yes,  the  angels  should  descend  from 
heaven  to  come  to  men,  and  I  will  be  to  him  an 
angel." 

On  the  morrow,  she  wrote  one  of  those  letters  in 
which  excels  the  spirit  of  the  ten  thousand  Sevignes 
which  Paris  now  includes.  And  yet,  to  know  how 
to  ask  for  pity  without  humiliation,  to  fly  to  him 
swift-winged  and  never  stoop  to  self-abasement,  to 
complain  but  not  offend,  to  rebel  with  tenderness, 
to  forgive  without  compromising  your  personal 
dignity,  to  tell  all  and  yet  to  avow  nothing, — surely, 
it  needed  to  be  the  Duchesse  de  Langeais  and  to 
have   been   trained    by   Madame   la    Princesse   de 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  373 

Blamont-Chauvry  to  write  this  enchanting  note. 
Julien  was  dispatclied  with  it.  Julien  was,  like 
all  valets  de  chambre,  the  victim  of  the  marches 
and  counter-marches  of  love. 

"What  answer  did  Monsieur  de  Montriveau 
send?"  she  asked  Julien  as  carelessly  as  she  could 
when  he  returned  to  give  an  account  of  his  mission. 

"Monsieur  le  Marquis  desired  me  to  say  to 
Madame  la  Duchesse  that  it  was  well." 

Frightful  reaction  of  the  hoping  heart!  to  receive 
before  inquisitive  witnesses  this  torture  of  the 
heart  and  not  to  murmur,  to  be  constrained  to 
silence.  This  is  one  of  the  thousand  misfortunes 
of  the  wealthy. 

For  twenty-two  days  Madame  de  Langeais  wrote 
to  Monsieur  de  Montriveau  without  obtaining  any 
reply.  At  last  she  made  the  excuse  of  illness  to 
escape  her  duties  to  the  princess,  of  whom  she  was 
one  of  the  attendants,  and  to  society.  She  received 
only  her  father,  the  Due  de  Navarreins;  her  aunt, 
the  Princesse  de  Blamont-Chauvry;  the  old  Vidame 
de  Pamiers,  her  maternal  great-uncle;  and  the 
uncle  of  her  husband,  the  Due  de  Grandlieu.  These 
persons  readily  believed  in  Madame  de  Langeais's 
illness  when  they  found  her  day  by  day  paler, 
thinner,  more  depressed.  The  vague  ardor  of  a  real 
love,  the  irritations  of  wounded  pride,  the  constant 
sting  of  the  only  disdain  that  could  have  reached 
her,  her  springing  impulses  towards  those  pleasures 
perpetually  desired,  perpetually  cheated, — all  these 
forces,   uselessly  excited,   undermined    her  double 


374  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

nature.  She  was  paying  the  arrears  of  her  wasted 
life.  She  went  out  at  last  to  be  present  at  a  review 
in  which  Monsieur  de  Montriveau  was  to  take  part. 
Stationed  with  the  royal  family  in  the  balcony  of 
the  Tuileries,  the  duchess  witnessed  one  of  those 
festivals  the  memory  of  which  lingers  long  in  the 
soul.  She  was  adorable  in  her  languor,  and  all  eyes 
saluted  her  with  admiration.  She  exchanged  a  few 
glances  with  Montriveau,  whose  presence  it  was 
that  rendered  her  so  beautiful.  The  general  rode 
past  almost  at  her  feet,  in  all  the  splendor  of  that 
military  costume  the  effect  of  which  on  feminine 
imaginations  is  confessed  even  by  the  most  prudish 
persons.  To  a  woman  deeply  in  love,  who  had  not 
seen  her  lover  for  two  months,  this  fleeting  moment 
must  have  seemed  like  that  glimpse  in  our  dreams 
in  which  is  revealed  to  our  sight  the  fugitive  vision 
of  a  land  without  horizon.  Women  and  very  young 
persons  alone  can  imagine  the  stupid  and  yet  deliri- 
ous avidity  expressed  by  the  eyes  of  the  duchess. 
As  to  men,  if,  during  their  youth,  they  have  experi- 
enced, in  the  paroxysms  of  their  first  passions,  these 
phenomena  of  nervous  force,  they  forget  them  so 
completely  in  later  years  that  they  come  to  deny 
the  very  existence  of  these  luxurious  ecstasies, — the 
only  possible  term  for  these  glorious  intuitions. 
Religious  ecstasy  is  the  madness  of  thought  released 
from  its  corporeal  bonds;  whereas,  in  the  ecstasy 
of  love,  the  forces  of  our  dual  natures  mingle, 
unite,  and  embrace  each  other.  When  a  woman 
falls  a  prey  to  the  furious  tyrannies  under  which 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  375 

Madame  de  Langeais  was  now  subjugated,  her  defi- 
nite resolutions  succeed  each  other  so  rapidly  that 
it  is  impossible  to  render  an  account  of  them. 
Thoughts  are  born  one  of  another,  and  rush  through 
the  soul  like  those  clouds  carried  away  by  the  wind 
across  the  gray  depths  which  veil  the  sun.  Thence- 
forward, acts  alone  will  speak.  Here  then  are  the 
facts.  The  morning  after  the  review,  Madame  de 
Langeais  sent  her  carriage  and  liveries  to  wait  at 
the  door  of  the  Marquis  de  Montriveau  from  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning  till  three  in  the  afternoon. 

Armand  lived  in  Rue  de  Tournon,  not  far  from 
the  Chamber  of  Peers,  where  there  was  to  be  a  sit- 
ting that  day.  But  long  before  the  peers  arrived 
at  their  palace  some  persons  had  noticed  the  car- 
riage and  the  liveries  of  the  duchess.  A  young 
officer,  scorned  by  Madame  de  Langeais  and  wel- 
comed by  Madame  de  Serizy,  the  Baron  de  Maulin- 
cour,  was  the  first  who  recognized  it.  He  went  at 
once  to  his  mistress  to- relate  to  her,  under  promise 
of  secrecy,  this  extraordinary  folly.  Immediately 
the  report  spread  telegraphically  through  all  the 
coteries  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  reached 
the  Chateau,  the  Elysee-Bourbon,  became  the 
news  of  the  day,  the  topic  of  all  conversation  from 
mid-day  until  evening.  Nearly  all  the  women 
denied  the  fact,  but  in  a  manner  which  confirmed 
the  truth  of  it;  and  the  men  believed  it  in  testify- 
ing the  most  indulgent  sympathy  for  Madame  de 
Langeais. 

**That  savage  of  a  Montriveau  has  a  character  of 


376  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

bronze,  he  has  doubtless  exacted  this  exposure," 
said  some  of  them,  throwing  the  blame  on  Armand. 

"Well,"  said  others,  "Madame  de  Langeais  has 
committed  a  most  generous  imprudence!  Before  all 
Paris,  to  renounce  for  her  lover  her  world,  her  rank, 
her  fortune,  her  good  name,  is  a  feminine  coup 
d'Etat  as  fine  as  that  cut  of  the  peruke-maker's 
knife  which  so  electrified  Canning  at  the  Court  of 
Assizes.  Not  one  of  the  women  who  blame  the 
duchess  would  have  made  this  declaration,  worthy 
the  olden  time.  Madame  de  Langeais  is  an  heroic 
woman  to  proclaim  herself  thus  frankly.  After  this, 
she  can  love  no  one  but  Montriveau.  Is  there  not 
some  grandeur  in  a  woman's  saying:  'I  will  have 
but  one  passion.? '  " 

"What  will  become  of  society.  Monsieur,  if  you 
thus  do  honor  to  open  vice,  without  respect  for  vir- 
tue?" said  the  wife  of  the  Procureur-General,  the 
Comtesse  de  Granville. 

While  the  Chateau,  the  Faubourg  and  the  Chaus- 
see-d'Antin  were  discussing  the  shipwreck  of  this 
aristocratic  virtue;  while  eager  young  men  were 
hastening  on  horseback  to  assure  themselves  by  the 
sight  of  the  carriage  in  Rue  de  Tournon  that  the 
duchess  was  really  in  Monsieur  de  Montriveau's 
house,  she  was  lying  palpitating  in  the  depths  of 
her  boudoir.  Armand,  who  had  not  slept  at  home, 
was  walking  in  the  Tuileries  with  Monsieur  de 
Marsay.  The  relatives  of  Madame  de  Langeais 
were  visiting  each  other  and  appointing  a  rendezvous 
at  her  house  to  reprimand  her  and  take  measures 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  377 

to  stop  the  scandal  caused  by  her  conduct.  At 
three  o'clock  the  Due  de  Navarreins,  the  Vidame 
de  Pamiers,  the  old  Princesse  de  Blamont-Chauvry 
and  the  Due  de  Grandlieu  were  assembled  in  the 
salon  of  Madame  de  Langeais  and  waiting  for  her. 
To  them,  as  to  some  other  inquirers,  the  servants 
had  stated  that  their  mistress  was  out  The 
duchess  had  made  no  exception  in  favor  of  anyone. 
These  four  personages — illustrious  in  the  aristo- 
cratic sphere  of  which  the  Almanach  de  Gotha 
records  annually  the  revolutions  and  the  hereditary 
pretensions — demand  a  rapid  sketch,  without  which 
this  social  picture  would  be  incomplete. 


The  Princesse  de  Blamont-Chauvry  was  in  the 
feminine  world  the  most  poetic  relic  of  the  reign  of 
Louis  XV,,  to  whose  surname  she  had,  it  was  said, 
in  her  gay  youth  contributed  her  quota.  Of  her 
former  charms  there  now  remained  only  a  remark- 
ably prominent  nose,  thin,  curved  like  a  Turkish 
blade,  the  principal  ornament  of  a  face  which 
resembled  an  old  white  glove;  some  crimped  and 
powdered  curls;  slippers  with  high  heels,  a  lace 
cap  with  ribbon  bows,  black  mittens  and  the  par- 
faits  contentements.  But,  to  do  her  complete  jus- 
tice, it  is  necessary  to  add  that  she  had  so  high  an 
opinion  of  her  ruins  that  she  went  decollete  in  the 
evening,  wore  long  gloves,  and  still  painted  her 
cheeks  with  the  classic  rouge  of  Martin.  A  formid- 
able amiability  in  her  wrinkles,  a  prodigious  fire  in 
her  eyes,  a  portentous  dignity  in  her  whole  person,  a 
triple  dart  of  malice  in  her  tongue,  an  infallible 
memory  in  her  head,  made  this  old  woman  a  veri- 
table power.  She  held  in  the  parchment  of  her 
brain  quite  as  much  information  as  there  was  in 
the  Cabinet  des  Chartes,  and  she  knew  the  alli- 
ances of  all  the  princely  and  ducal  houses  and  even 
those  of  the  counts  of  Europe  down  to  the  very  last 
descendants  of  Charlemagne.  No  usurpation  of 
titles  could  escape  her.  Young  men  anxious  to  be 
well  thought  of,  the  ambitious,  the  young  women, 

(379) 


380  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

paid  her  perpetual  homage.  Her  salon  gave  the 
law  to  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain.  The  words 
of  this  female  Talleyrand  were  accepted  as  final. 
Certain  persons  came  to  her  for  advice  on  etiquette 
and  the  usages  of  society,  and  to  receive  from  her 
lessons  in  good  taste.  Certainly,  no  other  old  lady 
knew  so  well  how  to  pocket  her  snuff-box ;  and  she 
had,  when  seating  herself  or  when  crossing  her 
legs,  arrangements  of  the  petticoat  of  such  a  pre- 
cision, such  a  grace,  that  the  young  women,  even 
the  most  elegant,  were  reduced  to  despair.  Her 
voice  had  remained  in  her  head  during  the  third  of 
her  lifetime,  but  she  had  not  been  able  to  prevent 
it  from  descending  into  the  membranes  of  her  nose, 
which  rendered  it  strangely  significant.  Of  her 
great  fortune  there  remained  to  her  a  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  francs  in  woodland,  generously 
returned  to  her  by  Napoleon.  Thus,  worldly  goods 
and  person,  everything  about  her  was  of  impor- 
tance. This  curious  antique  was  seated  on  a  sofa 
at  the  corner  of  the  fire-place  in  conversation  with 
the  Vidame  de  Pamiers,  another  contemporaneous 
ruin.  This  old  noble,  formerly  a  commander  of  the 
Order  of  Malta,  was  a  tall,  slim  and  lean  man,  whose 
neck  was  always  buckled  so  tightly  that  his  cheeks 
fell  a  little  over  his  cravat  and  compelled  him  to 
carry  his  head  high, — an  attitude  which  would  seem 
consequential  in  certain  persons,  but  in  him  was 
justified  by  a  spirit  altogether  Voltairian.  His  prom- 
inent eyes  seemed  to  see  everything  and  had,  in 
fact,  seen  everything     He  always  put  cotton  in  his 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  381 

ears.  In  short,  his  person  in  its  entirety  offered  a 
perfect  model  of  aristocratic  lines,  lines  slender  and 
fragile,  supple  and  pleasing,  which,  like  those  of 
a  serpent,  seem  to  be  able  to  bend  or  erect  them- 
~s"elves  at  pleasure,  to  glide  or  to  stiffen. 

The  Due  de  Navarreins  was  walking  up  and  down 
the  salon  with  the  Due  de  Grandlieu.  Both  were 
men  of  fifty-five  years  of  age,  still  fresh,  fat  and 
short,  well  nourished,  rather  florid,  with  weary 
eyes,  the  under  lips  already  slightly  pendulous. 
Except  for  the  elegance  of  their  language  and  the 
affable  courtesy  of  their  manner,  their  perfect  ease, 
which  could  in  a  moment  change  into  insolence, 
a  superficial  observer  might  have  taken  them  for 
bankers.  But  any  error  would  have  been  impossi- 
ble in  listening  to  their  conversation,  which  was 
hedged  with  precautions  against  those  whom  they 
held  in  awe,  dry  or  empty  for  their  equals,  and  per- 
fidious for  their  inferiors, — whom  courtiers  and 
statesmen  know  how  to  tame  with  verbal  flattery 
and  wound  with  an  unexpected  word.  Such  were 
the  representatives  of  this  great  nobility,  which 
chooses  to  die  or  to  remain  quite  unchanged,  which 
deserves  as  much  praise  as  blame,  and  which  will 
be  always  misunderstood  until  some  poet  shall  have 
portrayed  it  happy  in  obeying  its  king  and  in  per- 
ishing by  the  axe  of  Richelieu,  and  despising  the 
guillotine  of  '89  as  a  low  and  contemptible  ven- 
geance. 

These  four  personages  were  remarkable  for  thin, 
shrill  voices,  curiously  in  harmony  with  their  ideas 


382  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

and  their  deportment  Moreover,  the  most  perfect 
equality  existed  among  them.  The  habit,  learned 
at  Court,  of  concealing  their  emotions,  doubtless 
restrained  them  from  openly  expressing  the  dis- 
pleasure caused  them  by  the  prank  of  tlieir  young 
relative. 

To  prevent  the  critics  from  accusing  of  puerility 
the  commencement  of  the  following  scene,  perhaps 
it  is  necessary  to  observe  here  that  Locke,  when  in 
company  with  certain  English  lords  renowned  for 
their  wit,  distinguished  as  much  by  their  manners 
as  by  their  political  consistency,  amused  himself 
maliciously  by  taking  down  their  conversation  by 
an  ingenious  method  of  shorthand,  and  caused 
them  to  shout  with  laughter  in  reading  it  to  them 
afterwards,  asking  them  what  they  could  make  of 
it.  The  truth  is,  the  upper  classes  in  all  nations 
have  a  certain  jargon  of  glitter  which,  when 
washed  in  the  embers  of  literary  or  philosophical 
thought,  leaves  a  very  small  residuum  of  gold  in  the 
crucible.  In  all  planes  of  social  life,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  few  Parisian  salons,  the  observer  will  fmd 
the  same  absurdities,  which  differ  from  each  other 
only  according  to  the  thickness  or  transparency  of 
the  varnish.  Thus,  solid  conversation  is  excep- 
tional in  society  and  Boetian  dulness  supports 
habitually  the  various  zones  of  the  gay  world.  So, 
consequently,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  talk  in  the 
upper  circles,  and  very  little  thought.  To  think 
is  fatiguing,  and  the  wealthy  wish  to  see  their 
life  flow  on  without  much  effort.     Thus  it  is,   in 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  383 

comparing  the  great  bulk  of  wit  by  stages,  from  the 
gamin  of  Paris  to  the  peer  of  France,  that  the 
observer  will  comprehend  the  saying  of  Monsieur 
de  Talleyrand:  Manners  are  everything, — an  ele- 
gant translation  of  this  judicial  axiom  :  "La  forme 
emporte  lefond."  In  the  eyes  of  a  poet,  the  language 
of  the  lower  classes  will  always  retain  a  certain 
advantage  from  their  habit  of  giving  a  rough  stamp 
of  poetry  to  their  thoughts.  This  observation  will 
also  perhaps  explain  the  barren  emptiness  of  the 
salons,  their  want,  their  little  depth,  and  the 
repugnance  which  superior  persons  feel  for  the 
unprofitable  interchange  of  their  thoughts  which 
characterizes  them. 

The  duke  stopped  suddenly,  as  if  struck  by  a 
brilliant  idea,  and  said  to  his  companion: 

"You  have  then  sold  Tornthon  ?  " 

"No,  he  is  sick.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  lose  him, 
and  I  shall  be  exceedingly  sorry:  he  is  a  capital 
hunter.  Do  you  know  how  the  Duchesse  de  Mar- 
igny  is? " 

"No,  I  did  not  call  this  morning.  I  was  going  to 
see  her  when  you  came  to  tell  me  about  Antoinette. 
But  she  was  very  ill  yesterday,  they  despaired  of 
her  life,  she  received  the  last  sacraments." 

"Will  her  death  alter  your  cousin's  prospects?" 

"Not  at  all,  she  divided  her  property  in  her  life- 
time and  kept  for  herself  only  a  pension  which  is 
paid  to  her  by  her  niece,  Madame  de  Soulanges,  to 
whom  she  made  over  her  estate  of  Guebriant  for  an 
annuity." 


384  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

"She  will  be  a  great  loss  to  society.  She  was  a 
good  woman.  Her  family  will  have  one  less  person 
whose  advice  and  experience  always  had  weight. 
Between  ourselves,  she  was  the  real  head  of  the 
house.  Her  son,  Marigny,  is  an  amiable  man;  he 
is  witty,  he  can  talk.  He  is  agreeable,  very  agree- 
able,— oh!  as  for  agreeable,  that's  not  to  be  denied; 
but — no  idea  whatever  of  conducting  himself. 
Still,  it  is  extraordinary,  he  is  very  clever.  The 
other  day,  he  was  dining  at  the  club  with  all  those 
rich  fellows  of  the  Chaussee  d'Antin,  and  your 
uncle — who  is  always  there  for  his  game  of  whist — 
saw  him.  Surprised  to  meet  him  there,  he  asked 
him  if  he  were  a  member  of  the  club.  'Yes,  I  don't 
go  into  society  any  longer,  I  live  with  the  bankers.' 
You  know  why?  "  said  the  marquis,  looking  at  the 
duke  with  a  sly  smile. 

"No." 

"He  is  infatuated  with  a  young  bride,  that  little 
Madame  Keller,  the  daughter  of  Gondreville,  a 
woman  whom  they  say  is  all  the  fashion  among 
that  set." 

"Antoinette  is  not  boring  herself,  it  would  seem," 
said  the  old  vidame. 

"The  affection  I  feel  for  that  little  woman  is 
obliging  me  to  spend  my  time  at  present  in  a  sin- 
gular manner,"  the  princess  answered  him,  pocket- 
ing her  snuff-box. 

"My  dear  aunt,"  said  the  duke,  stopping  before 
her,  "I  am  in  despair.  Only  one  of  those  Bona- 
parte men  would   be   capable  of  exacting  from   a 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  385 

respectable  woman  such  impropriety.  Between 
ourselves,  Antoinette  might  have  made  a  better 
choice." 

"My  dear,"  answered  the  princess,  "the  Mon- 
triveaus  are  an  ancient  family  and  very  well  con- 
nected, they  are  related  to  all  the  high  nobility  of 
Burgundy.  If  the  Rivaudoults  of  Arschoot,  of  the 
Dulmen  branch,  should  come  to  an  end  in  Gallicia, 
the  Montriveaus  will  succeed  to  the  estates  and  to 
the  titles  of  Arschoot;  they  inherit  them  through 
their  great-grandfather." 

"You  are  sure  of  it? — " 

"I  know  it  better  than  the  father  of  this  man, 
whom  I  often  saw,  and  to  whom  I  told  it  Though  a 
knight  of  several  orders,  he  ridiculed  them  all ;  he 
was  an  'Encyclopedist'  But  his  brother  profited 
greatly  during  the  emigration.  I  have  heard  that 
his  relatives  at  the  north  behaved  admirably  to 
him.—" 

"Yes,  that  is  true.  The  Comte  de  Montriveau 
died  at  St  Petersburg,  where  1  met  him,"  said  the 
vidame.  "He  was  a  large  man,  with  an  incredible 
passion  for  oysters." 

"How  many  could  he  eat?"  said  the  Due  de 
Grandlieu. 

"Ten  dozen  every  day." 

"Without  indigestion?" 

"Not  the  least" 

"Oh!  but  that   is  most  extraordinary !    Did  they 
not  give  him  the  stone  or  gout,  or  some  other  incon- 
venience? " 
25 


386  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

"No,  he  had  perfect  health,  he  died  from  an  acci- 
dent." 

"An  accident!  Nature  prompted  him  to  eat 
oysters,  they  were  probably  necessary  to  him ;  for 
up  to  a  certain  point  our  predominant  tastes  are  the 
conditions  of  our  existence." 

"I  am  of  your  opinion,"  said  the  princess,  smil- 
ing. 

"Madame,  you  always  take  things  a  little  mali- 
ciously," said  the  marquis. 

"I  only  wished  to  make  you  see  that  these  things 
might  be  very  much  misunderstood  by  a  young 
woman,"  she  replied. 

Then  she  interrupted  herself  to  say: 

"But  my  niece !  my  niece !  " 

"Dear  aunt,"  said  Monsieur  de  Navarreins,  "I 
cannot  yet  believe  that  she  has  gone  to  Monsieur 
de  Montriveau. " 

"Bah!"  said  the  princess. 

"What  is  your  opinion,  vidame.?"  asked  the 
marquis. 

"If  the  duchess  were  naive,  1  should  think — " 

"But  a  woman  in  love  becomes  naive,  my  poor 
vidame.     You  are  getting  old,  it  seems  .J* " 

"What  is  to  be  done? "  said  the  duke. 

"If  my  dear  niece  is  wise,"  replied  the  princess, 
"she  will  go  to  Court  this  evening,  happily  this  is 
Monday,  the  day  of  reception;  you  will  take  care 
to  have  her  well  surrounded  and  to  give  the  lie  to 
this  ridiculous  rumor.  There  are  a  thousand  ways 
of    explaining    things;    and    if    the    Marquis    de 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  387 

Montriveau  is  a  gallant  man,  he  will  lend  him- 
self to  any  of  them.  We  will  make  these  children 
listen  to  reason — " 

"But  it  would  be  difficult  to  break  a  lance  with 
Monsieur  de  Montriveau,  dear  aunt,  he  is  a  pupil 
of  Bonaparte,  and  he  has  a  position.  Bless  me!  he 
is  a  seigneur  of  these  days,  he  has  an  important 
command  in  the  Guard,  where  he  is  very  useful. 
He  has  not  the  slightest  ambition.  At  the  first 
word  which  displeased  him,  he  is  just  the  man  to 
say  to  the  king:  'There  is  my  resignation,  leave 
me  in  peace.'  " 

"What  are  his  opinions?  " 

"Very  bad  ones." 

"In  fact,"  said  the  princess,  "the  king  is  what 
he  always  was, — a  Jacobin,  fleur-de-lysed. " 

"Oh!  somewhat  modified,"  said  the  vidame. 

"No,  I  know  him  of  old.  The  man  who  said  to 
his  wife,  the  day  on  which  she  was  first  present  at 
the  first  grand  repast :  '  There  are  our  servants, '  indi- 
cating to  her  the  Court,  can  be  nothing  but  a  black 
scoundrel.  I  recognize  perfectly  MONSIEUR  in  the 
king.  The  wicked  brother  who  voted  so  badly  in 
his  bureau  of  the  Constituent  Assembly  probably 
conspires  now  with  the  Liberals,  consults  them, 
discusses  with  them.  This  philosophical  bigot  will 
be  quite  as  dangerous  for  his  younger  brother  as  he 
was  for  the  elder ;  for  I  do  not  see  how  his  successor 
will  be  able  to  get  out  of  the  troubles  which  this 
big  man  with  little  wit  has  been  pleased  to  create 
for  him;  besides,  he  hates  him,  and  would  be  happy 


388  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

to  be  able  to  say  to  himself  on  his  deathbed:  'He 
will  not  reign  long.'  " 

"My  dear  aunt,  he  is  the  king,  I  have  the  honor 
to  serve  him,  and — " 

"But,  my  dear  nephew,  does  your  office  deprive 
you  of  the  right  of  free  speech  ?  You  are  of  as  good 
a  house  as  that  of  the  Bourbons.  If  the  Guises 
had  had  a  shade  more  resolution.  His  Majesty 
would  only  be  a  poor  gentleman  to-day.  I  am 
going  to  leave  the  world  at  a  good  time,  nobility 
is  dead.  Yes,  everything  is  at  an  end  for  you, 
my  children,"  she  added,  looking  at  the  vidame. 
"Is  the  conduct  of  my  niece  to  be  made  the  talk  of 
the  town?  She  has  done  wrong,  I  don't  approve  of 
her,  a  useless  scandal  is  a  fault;  so  that  I  still  have 
my  doubts  of  this  lack  of  the  proprieties,  I  brought 
her  up  and  I  know  that — " 

At  this  moment  the  duchess  emerged  from  her 
boudoir.  She  had  recognized  her  aunt's  voice  and 
had  heard  the  name  of  Montriveau.  She  was  in 
morning  dishabille;  and,  as  she  came  into  the 
room.  Monsieur  de  Grandlieu,  who  was  looking 
carelessly  out  of  the  window,  saw  her  carriage 
return  without  her. 

"My  dear  daughter,"  said  the  duke,  taking  her 
head  and  kissing  her  on  the  forehead,  "do  you 
know  what  is  going  on  ? " 

"Is  anything  extraordinary  going  on,  dear 
father?" 

"But  all  Paris  thinks  you  are  with  Monsieur  de 
Montriveau." 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  389 

"My  dear  Antoinette,  you  have  not  been  out, 
have  you?"  said  the  princess,  offering  her  hand, 
which  the  duchess  kissed  with  respectful  affection. 

"No,  dear  mother,  I  have  not  been  out  And," 
she  added,  turning  to  salute  the  vidame  and  the 
marquis,  "I  intended  that  all  Paris  should  think 
me  with  Monsieur  de  Montriveau. " 

The  duke  raised  his  hands  to  heaven,  struck 
them  together  despairingly  and  folded  his  arms. 

"But  do  you  not  know  what  will  be  the  result  of 
this  rash  action.?  "  he  said  at  last. 

The  old  princess  rose  suddenly  on  her  heels  and 
looked  at  the  duchess,  who  blushed  and  lowered 
her  eyes ;  Madame  de  Chauvry  drew  her  gently  to 
her  and  said: 

"Let  me  kiss  you,  my  little  angel." 

Then  she  kissed  her  forehead  very  affectionately, 
pressed  her  hand  and  added  smiling: 

"  We  are  no  longer  under  the  Valois,  my  dear 
daughter.  You  have  compromised  your  husband, 
your  position  in  the  world;  however,  we  will  take 
measures  to  undo  all  that." 

"But,  my  dear  aunt,  I  want  nothing  undone.  I 
wish  all  Paris  to  think  or  to  say  that  I  was  this 
morning  with  Monsieur  de  Montriveau.  Destroy 
that  belief,  false  as  it  is,  and  you  will  do  me  the 
greatest  harm." 

"My  daughter,  do  you  wish,  then,  to  be  lost,  and 
to  grieve  your  family  ?  " 

"My  dear  father,  my  family,  in  sacrificing  me  to 
its  own  interest,  gave  me  over,  without  intending 


390  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

it,  to  irreparable  misery.  You  may  blame  me  for 
seeking  to  soften  my  fate,  but  certainly  you  must 
pity  me." 

"To  give  yourself  a  thousand  troubles  in  order  to 
establish  your  daughters  suitably!"  murmured 
Monsieur  de  Navarreins  to  the  vidame. 

"Dear  child,"  said  the  princess,  shaking  off  the 
grains  of  snuff  that  had  fallen  on  her  dress,  "be 
happy  if  you  can;  it  is  not  a  question  of  hindering 
your  happiness,  but  of  making  it  accord  with  ordi- 
nary customs.  We  all  know,  here,  that  marriage 
is  a  defective  institution  modified  by  love.  But  is 
it  necessary  in  taking  a  lover  to  make  your  bed  on 
the  Carrousel  ?  Come  now,  be  reasonable,  listen 
to  us." 

"I  am  listening." 

"Madame  la  Duchesse, "  said  the  Due  de  Grandlieu, 
"if  uncles  were  obliged  to  take  care  of  their  nieces, 
there  would  be  but  one  business  in  life;  and  society 
would  owe  them  honors,  rewards  and  incomes,  such 
as  it  gives  to  the  king's  employes.  Therefore,  I 
have  not  come  to  talk  to  you  of  my  nephew,  but  of 
your  interests.  Let  us  consider.  If  you  are  resolved 
to  make  an  open  break,  I  know  the  Sieur  Langeais, 
I  don't  like  him.  He  is  miserly,  he  has  the  devil 
of  a  character ;  he  will  separate  from  you,  he  will 
keep  your  fortune,  he  will  leave  you  poor  and  con- 
sequently without  position  in  the  world.  The  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  of  income  which  you  have 
lately  inherited  from  your  maternal  great-aunt  will 
go  to  pay  for  the  pleasures  of  his  mistresses,  and 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  39I 

you  will  be  bound,  garroted  by  the  laws,  and 
compelled  to  say  Amen  to  all  these  arrangements. 
Suppose  Monsieur  de  Montriveau  should  leave  you ! 
— Mon  Dieu,  dear  niece,  do  not  let  us  get  angry,  a 
man  will  never  abandon  you  while  you  are  young 
and  pretty;  but  have  we  not  seen  enough  charming 
women  forsaken,  even  among  princesses,  for  you  to 
admit  of  my  making  this  supposition — almost  im- 
possible, I  readily  believe;  then,  where  will  you  be 
without  a  husband?  Manage,  then,  the  one  you 
have,  just  as  you  take  care  of  your  beauty,  which 
is,  after  all,  like  the  husband  himself,  the  para- 
chute of  a  woman.  I  wish  you  to  be  always  happy 
and  beloved;  I  will  not  take  into  consideration  any 
unfortunate  event.  This  being  so,  happily  or  un- 
happily, you  may  have  children?  What  will  you 
call  them  ?  Montriveau  ? — Well,  they  can  never 
inherit  their  father's  fortune.  You  will  wish  to 
give  them  all  yours,  and  he,  all  his.  Mon  Dieu, 
nothing  is  more  natural.  You  will  find  the  laws 
forbidding  it.  How  often  have  we  seen  suits 
brought  by  heirs-at-law  to  dispossess  love  children? 
I  have  heard  of  them  in  all  the  tribunals  of  the 
world.  Will  you  have  recourse  to  some  person  to 
whom  you  will  leave  your  property  in  trust;  if  the 
person  in  whom  you  put  your  confidence  deceives 
you,— in  truth,  human  justice  will  not  interfere, 
and  your  children  will  be  ruined.  Choose,  then, 
carefully! " 

"You  see  the  difficulties  in  which  you  are.     In 
every    way    your    children    will     necessarily    be 


392  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

sacrificed  to  the  fancies  of  your  heart,  and  deprived 
of  their  position  in  the  world.  Mon  Dieu!  so  long 
as  they  are  little,  they  will  be  charming;  but  they 
will  reproach  you  one  day  with  having  thought 
more  of  yourself  than  of  them.  We  know  all  about 
that,  we  old  gentlemen.  Children  become  men, 
and  men  are  ungrateful.  Did  I  not  hear  the  young 
de  Horn  in  Germany  say,  one  night  after  supper : 
'If  my  mother  had  been  an  honest  woman,  I  should 
have  been  the  reigning  prince? '  But  this  IF,  we 
have  passed  our  lives  in  hearing  it  uttered  by  the 
lower  classes,  and  it  made  the  Revolution.  When 
men  cannot  accuse  their  father  or  their  mother, 
they  complain  to  God  of  their  evil  fate.  To  sum 
up,  dear  child,  we  are  here  to  open  your  eyes  to  all 
this.  Well,  I  can  resume  it  all  in  one  word,  which 
you  should  think  over, — a  wife  should  never  give 
her  husband  reason  to  condemn  her." 

"Uncle,  I  have  calculated  so  much  that  I  did  not 
love.  Then  I  saw,  as  you  do  yourself,  interest 
there  where  now  there  is  no  longer  for  me  anything 
but  feeling,"  said  the  duchess. 

"But,  my  dearest  child,  life  is  altogether  a  com- 
plication of  interests  and  feelings,"  replied  the 
vidame;  "and  to  be  happy,  especially  in  the  posi- 
tion in  which  you  are  placed,  we  should  try  to  com- 
bine feelings  with  interest.  Let  a  grisette  make 
love  as  she  likes,  that's  all  very  well ;  but  you  have 
a  pretty  fortune,  a  family,  a  title,  a  place  at  Court, 
and  you  should  not  throw  them  all  out  of  the  win- 
dow.    To  arrange  all  this,  what  is  it  we  ask  of 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  393 

you?  Only,  to  cleverly  conciliate  the  proprieties, 
instead  of  flying  in  their  face.  Ah,  Mon  Dieu!  I 
am  nearly  eighty  years  old,  and  I  do  not  remember 
to  have  ever  met,  under  any  regime,  a  love  which 
was  worth  the  price  which  you  are  ready  to  pay 
for  that  of  this  fortunate  young  man." 

The  duchess  silenced  the  vidame  with  a  look; 
and  if  Montriveau  could  have  seen  her  then  he 
would  have  pardoned  everything. 

"This  would  be  a  fine  theatrical  scene,"  said  the 
Due  de  Grandlieu,  "and  yet  signifies  nothing  when 
it  concerns  your  property,  your  position  and  your 
independence.  You  are  not  grateful,  my  dear 
niece.  You  will  not  find  many  families  in  which 
the  relations  are  courageous  enough  to  give  the 
lessons  of  their  experience  and  make  the  giddy 
young  heads  hear  the  language  of  common  sense. 
Renounce  your  salvation  in  two  minutes,  if  it 
pleases  you  to  get  yourself  damned,  I  am  willing! 
But  reflect  well  when  it  comes  to  renouncing  your 
income.  1  don't  know  any  confessor  who  can  ab- 
solve you  from  the  pains  of  poverty.  1  think  1 
have  the  right  to  speak  to  you  thus;  because,  if 
you  go  to  perdition,  I  alone  shall  be  able  to  offer 
you  a  refuge.  I  am  almost  the  uncle  of  Langeais, 
and  I  alone  can  put  him  in  the  wrong  by  so  doing." 

"My  daughter,"  said  the  Due  de  Navarreins, 
rousing  himself  from  painful  meditation,  "as  you 
speak  of  feelings  let  me  observe  to  you  that  a 
woman  who  bears  your  name  should  have  other  feel- 
ings than  those  which  belong  to  the  common  people. 


394  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

Do  you  wish  to  help  the  cause  of  the  Liberals,  of 
those  Jesuits  of  Robespierre  who  seek  to  dishonor 
the  nobility?  There  are  certain  things  that  a 
Navarreins  cannot  do  without  injuring  her  house. 
You  will  not  be  the  only  one  dishonored." 

"Come,"  said  the  princess,  "do  not  let  us  talk 
of  dishonor!  My  children,  do  not  make  so  much 
noise  over  the  promenade  of  an  empty  carriage, 
and  leave  me  alone  with  Antoinette.  You  will 
come  and  dine  with  me,  all  three.  I  take  upon  my- 
self to  arrange  this  thing  in  a  proper  manner.  You 
don't  understand  things,  you  men,  you  put  already 
too  much  sharpness  in  your  words,  and  I  do  not 
want  you  to  quarrel  with  my  dear  daughter.  Do 
me  then  the  pleasure  to  go  away." 

The  three  gentlemen  doubtless  divined  the  inten- 
tions of  the  princess,  they  bowed  to  the  ladies;  and 
Monsieur  de  Navarreins  kissed  his  daughter  on  the 
forehead,  saying  to  her: 

"Come,  my  dear  child,  be  wise.  If  you  will, 
there  is  still  time." 

"Could  we  not  find  in  the  family  some  vigorous 
young  fellow  who  would  pick  a  quarrel  with  this 
Montriveau?"  said  the  vidame  as  they  descended 
the  stairs. 


* 

"My  treasure,"  said  the  princess,  making  a  sign 
to  her  pupil  to  take  a  small,  low  chair  near  her 
when  they  were  alone,  "I  know  nothing  here  below 
so  calumniated  as  God  and  the  Eighteenth  Century, 
for,  as  I  look  back  to  the  days  of  my  youth,  I  can- 
not recall  a  single  duchess  who  trod  the  proprieties 
under  foot  as  you  are  doing.  The  romance-makers 
and  the  scribblers  have  vilified  the  reign  of  Louis 
XV. ;  do  not  believe  them.  The  Du  Barry,  my  dear, 
was  well  worth  the  Widow  Scarron,  she  was  a 
better  person.  In  my  day,  a  woman  knew  how,  in 
the  midst  of  her  gallantries,  to  keep  her  dignity. 
Indiscretions  have  ruined  us.  From  them  comes 
all  the  trouble.  The  philosophers,  those  nobodies 
whom  we  admitted  into  our  salons,  have  had  the 
impropriety  and  the  ingratitude,  in  return  for  our 
bounty,  to  make  an  inventory  of  our  hearts,  to 
decry  us  as  a  whole  and  in  detail,  to  rail  against 
the  century.  The  lower  orders,  who  are  very 
badly  situated  to  judge  anything,  no  matter  what, 
saw  the  character  of  things  only  and  not  their 
forms.  But,  in  those  times,  my  dear  heart,  men 
and  women  were  quite  as  remarkable  as  in  any 
other  epoch  of  the  monarchy.  Not  one  of  your 
Werthers,  not  one  of  your  notables,  as  they  call 
themselves,  not  one  of  your  men  in  yellow  gloves 
and  whose  pantaloons  conceal  the  leanness  of  their 

(395) 


396  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

legs,  would  have  crossed  Europe,  disguised  as  a 
peddler,  to  shut  himself  up  at  the  risk  of  his  life  and 
in  braving  the  poniards  of  the  Due  de  Mod^ne  in 
the  dressing-room  of  the  regent's  daughter.  Not 
one  of  your  little  consumptives  with  tortoise-shell 
eye-glasses  would  have  hid,  like  Lauzun,  in  a 
wardrobe  for  six  weeks  to  give  courage  to  his  mis- 
tress in  the  pains  of  childbirth.  There  was  more 
passion  in  the  little  finger  of  Monsieur  de  Jaucourt 
than  in  your  whole  race  of  wranglers  who  leave  a 
woman's  side  to  vote  for  an  amendment.  Find  me 
to-day  a  page  who  would  let  himself  be  hacked  to 
pieces  and  buried  under  the  floor  merely  to  kiss  the 
gloved  fingers  of  a  Koenismark!  To-day,  really  it 
would  seem  that  the  roles  had  been  changed,  and 
that  women  were  expected  to  devote  themselves  to 
men.  These  messieurs  are  worthless,  and  estimate 
themselves  as  worth  more.  Believe  me,  my  dear,  all 
those  adventures  which  have  become  public  and 
which  are  used  to-day  to  assassinate  our  good  Louis 
XV,  were  all  at  first  secret.  If  it  had  not  been  for  a 
crowd  of  poetasters,  sorry  rhymsters,  moralists,  who 
gossiped  with  our  waiting-women  and  wrote  down 
their  calumnies,our  epoch  would  have  held  its  own  in 
literature  as  to  manners  and  morals.  I  am  defending 
the  century  and  not  its  skirts.  There  may  have 
been  a  hundred  women  of  quality  who  lost  them- 
selves, but  the  fools  made  a  thousand  of  them,  just 
as  the  gazettes  do  when  they  estimate  the  enemy's 
dead  on  the  battle  field.  Besides,  I  don't  know  why 
the  Revolution  or  the  Empire  should  reproach  us, — 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  397 

those  times  were  licentious  enough,  without  wit, 
coarse,  fie !  all  that  revolts  me.  These  are  the  bad 
spots  on  our  history.  This  preamble,  my  dear 
child,"  she  resumed  after  a  pause,  "is  simply  to 
lead  up  to  telling  you  that,  if  you  care  for  Mon- 
triveau,  you  are  quite  free  to  love  him  at  your  con- 
venience and  as  much  as  you  can.  For  myself,  I 
know  by  experience  that — short  of  locking  you  up, 
and  we  no  longer  lock  up  people  in  these  days — 
you  will  do  what  you  please;  that  is  what  I  should 
have  done  at  your  age.  Only,  my  jewel,  I  should 
not  have  abdicated  my  right  to  make  Dues  de  Lan- 
geais.  So,  behave  with  propriety.  The  vidame  is 
quite  right,  no  man  is  worth  a  single  one  of  the 
sacrifices  with  which  we  are  foolish  enough  to  pay 
for  their  love.  Keep  yourself  then  in  the  position, 
if  you  should  be  unhappy  enough  to  have  to  repent, 
to  be  able  to  still  remain  the  wife  of  Monsieur  de 
Langeais.  When  you  are  old,  you  will  be  glad 
enough  to  hear  mass  at  Court  and  not  in  some 
country  conv^ent,  there's  the  whole  of  it  in  a  nut- 
shell. Imprudence,  that  means  an  annuity,  a  wan- 
dering life,  being  at  the  mercy  of  your  lover;  it 
means  the  mortification  caused  by  the  imperti- 
nences of  women  who  are  not  worthy  of  you,  simply 
because  they  have  been  very  vulgarly  clever.  It 
would  be  a  hundred  times  better  to  go  to  Mon- 
triveau  after  dark,  in  a  hackney  coach,  disguised, 
than  to  send  your  carriage  in  broad  daylight  You 
are  a  little  goose,  my  dear  child.  Your  carriage 
flattered  his  vanity,  your  person  would  have  won 


398  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

his  heart.  I  have  told  you  the  exact  truth,  but  1 
^m  not  in  the  least  angry  with  you.  You  are  two 
centuries  behind  the  times  with  your  misplaced 
grandeur.  Come,  let  us  arrange  the  matter,  we 
will  say  that  Montriveau  made  your  servants  drunk 
to  gratify  his  vanity  and  to  compromise  you — " 

"For  heaven's  sake, dear  aunt,"  cried  the  duchess, 
starting  up,  "do  not  calumniate  him  !  " 

"Ah!  dear  child,"  said  the  princess,  whose  eyes 
lighted  up,  "I  should  wish  to  see  you  have  illusions 
which  were  not  dangerous  for  you,  but  all  illusions 
fade.  You  would  melt  my  heart,  if  it  were  not  so 
old.  Come  now,  do  not  vex  anyone,  neither  him 
nor  us.  I  take  upon  myself  to  satisfy  all  parties ; 
but  promise  me  that  you  will  not  take  after  this  a 
single  step  without  consulting  me.  Tell  me  every- 
thing, I  will  guide  you,  perhaps  safely." 

"Dear  aunt,  1  promise  you — " 

"To  tell  me  all?" 

"Yes,  all,  that  is  all  that  can  be  told." 

"But,  dear  heart,  it  is  precisely  that  which  can- 
not be  told  that  I  wish  to  know.  Let  us  understand 
each  other  thoroughly.  Come,  permit  me  to  press 
my  dry  lips  on  your  beautiful  brow.  No,  let  me  do 
it,  I  forbid  you  to  kiss  my  bones.  Old  people  have 
a  politeness  of  their  own. — Come,  take  me  down  to 
my  carriage,"  she  said  after  having  embraced  her 
niece. 

"Dear  aunt,  I  can  then  go  to  him  disguised?" 

"Why  yes,  that  can  always  be  denied,"  said 
the  old  woman. 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  399 

The  duchess  had  definitely  caught  this  idea  alone 
from  the  sermon  which  the  princess  had  preached 
to  her.  When  Madame  de  Chauvry  was  safely 
seated  in  the  corner  of  her  carriage,  Madame  de 
Langeais  bade  her  a  gracious  adieu,  and  remounted, 
radiant,  to  her  own  apartments. 

"My  presence  would  have  won  his  heart;  my 
aunt  is  right,  a  man  could  not  refuse  a  pretty  wo- 
man when  she  knows  well  how  to  offer  herself." 

That  evening,  at  the  reception  of  Madame  la 
Duchesse  de  Berri,  the  Due  de  Navarreins,  Monsieur 
de  Pamiers,  Monsieur  de  Marsay,  Monsieur  de 
Grandlieu  and  the  Due  de  Maufrigneuse  triumph- 
antly denied  the  offensive  rumors  which  were  cur- 
rent about  the  Duchesse  de  Langeais.  So  many 
officers  and  others  bore  witness  to  having  seen  Mon- 
triveau  walking  in  the  Tuileries  during  the  fore- 
noon that  this  foolish  story  was  laid  to  the  door  of 
chance,  which  takes  all  that  is  given  to  it.  There- 
fore, the  next  day  the  reputation  of  the  duchess 
became,  in  spite  of  the  stationing  of  her  carriage, 
as  spotless  and  bright  as  Mambrino's  helmet  after 
Sancho  had  polished  it.  Only  at  two  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  Monsieur  de 
Ronquerolles  passing  by  Montriveau  in  a  secluded 
alley  said  to  him  smiling: 

"She  is  well,  your  duchess." 

"Just  as  usual,"  he  added,  applying  a  signifi- 
cant stroke  of  the  whip  to  his  mare,  which  dashed 
away  like  a  bullet. 

Two  days  after  this  futile  explosion  Madame  de 


^ 


400  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

Langeais  wrote  to  Monsieur  de  Montriveau  a  letter, 
which  remained  unanswered  like  all  its  predeces- 
sors. This  time,  however,  she  had  taken  her 
measures  and  bribed  Auguste,  Armand's  valet  de 
chambre.  At  eight  o'clock  that  evening,  therefore, 
she  was  introduced  into  Montriveau's  apartment, 
into  a  room  altogether  different  from  the  one  in 
which  the  former  secret  scene  had  been  enacted. 
There  the  duchess  learned  that  the  general  would 
not  return  that  evening.  Had  he  two  domiciles? 
The  valet  would  not  reply.  Madame  de  Langeais 
had  bought  the  key  of  the  room,  and  not  all  the 
integrity  of  this  man.  Left  alone  she  saw  her 
fourteen  letters  lying  on  an  old  round  table;  they 
were  still  sealed,  unopened ;  not  one  had  been  read. 
At  this  sight  she  fell  into  an  arm-chair,  and  for 
a  moment  lost  consciousness.  When  she  came  to 
herself  she  found  Auguste  holding  vinegar  to  her 
face. 

"A  carriage,  quick,"  she  said. 

When  it  came,  she  ran  down  stairs  with  convul- 
sive rapidity,  returned  home,  went  to  bed  and 
denied  herself  to  everyone.  She  remained  twenty- 
four  hours  in  her  bed,  letting  no  one  approach  her 
but  her  waiting-maid,  who  brought  her  from  time  to 
time  a  cup  of  orange-flower  water.  Suzette  heard 
her  mistress  uttering  some  complaints  and  saw  tears 
in  her  eyes,  brilliant,  though  surrounded  by  dark 
circles.  The  third  day,  after  having  meditated 
in  tears  of  despair  on  the  course  which  she  wished 
to  take,    Madame   de   Langeais   had   a   conference 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  4OI 

with  her  man  of  business  and  doubtless  gave 
him  instructions  to  make  certain  preparations. 
Then  she  sent  for  the  old  Vidame  de  Pamiers. 
While  waiting  for  him,  she  wrote  to  Monsieur  de 
Montriveau.  The  vidame  was  punctual.  He  found 
his  young  cousin  pale,  dejected,  but  resigned.  It 
was  about  two  in  the  afternoon.  Never  had  this 
divine  creature  been  more  poetic  than  she  was  now 
in  the  languor  of  her  anguish. 

"My  dear  cousin,"  she  said  to  the  vidame,  "your 
eighty  years  have  obtained  for  you  this  rendezvous. 
Oh!  do  not  smile,  I  pray  you,  before  a  poor  woman 
who  is  in  the  deepest  grief.  You  are  a  gallant  man, 
and  the  adventures  of  your  youth,  I  like  to  believe, 
have  inspired  you  with  some  indulgence  for  women. " 

"Not  the  least,"  he  said. 

"Really!" 

"They  are  happy  with  everything, "  he  answered. 

"Ah!  well,  you  are  in  the  heart  of  my  family; 
you  will  be  perhaps  the  last  relative,  the  last  friend, 
whose  hand  I  shall  ever  press;  I  may  then  ask  of 
you  a  favor.  Do  me,  my  dear  vidame,  a  service 
which  I  cannot  ask  from  my  father,  nor  from  my 
uncle  Grandiieu,  nor  from  any  woman.  You  will 
understand  me.  I  entreat  you  to  obey  me,  and  to 
forget  that  you  have  obeyed  me,  whatever  may  be 
the  issue  of  your  action.  It  is  to  go  with  this  letter 
to  Monsieur  de  Montriveau,  to  see  him,  to  show  it 
to  him,  to  ask  him  as  one  man  can  ask  of  another, 
— for  you  have  between  yourselves  an  integrity, 
certain  feelings,  which  you  forget  with  us, — to  ask 
26 


402  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

him  if  he  will  read  it,  not  in  your  presence,  men 
wish  to  hide  certain  emotions.  I  authorize  you,  to 
enable  him  to  decide  and  if  you  judge  it  necessary, 
to  say  to  him  that  it  is  a  matter  of  life  or  death  to 
me.     If  he  deigns — " 

"Deigns!  "  exclaimed  the  commander. 

"If  he  deigns  to  read  it,"  continued  the  duchess, 
with  dignity,  "say  to  him  one  last  word.  You  will 
see  him  at  five  o'clock,  he  dines  at  that  hour  at 
home  to-day,  I  know  this;  well,  he  should,  for  sole 
answer,  come  and  see  me.  If,  three  hours  later,  if 
at  eight  o'clock,  he  has  not  left  home,  all  will  be 
over.  The  Duchesse  de  Langeais  will  have  disap- 
peared from  this  world.  1  shall  not  be  dead,  my 
dear,  no;  but  no  human  power  will  ever  find  me 
again  on  this  earth.  Come  and  dine  with  me,  I 
shall  have  at  least  one  friend  beside  me  in  my  last 
agonies.  Yes,  to-night,  my  dear  cousin,  my  life 
will  be  decided;  and  which  ever  way  it  is  it  can 
only  be  cruelly  fervid.  Go  now.  Silence,  I  can 
listen  to  nothing  which  resembles  either  comments 
or  advice. — Come,  let  us  talk,  let  us  laugh,"  she 
said,  holding  out  to  him  a  hand  which  he  kissed. 
"Let  us  be  like  two  old  philosophers  who  know 
how  to  enjoy  life  up  to  the  moment  of  their  death. 
1  will  adorn  myself,  will  be  very  coquettish  for  you. 
You  will  be,  perhaps,  the  last  man  that  sees  the 
Duchesse  de  Langeais." 

The  vidame  made  no  reply,  he  bowed,  took  the 
letter  and  did  his  errand.  He  returned  at  five  o'clock, 
found   his   cousin  dressed  with   care,  exquisite  in 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  403 

fact  The  salon  was  decorated  with  flowers  as 
if  for  a  f^te.  The  repast  was  delicious.  For  this 
old  man  the  duchess  displayed  all  the  brilliancy 
of  her  wit  and  showed  herself  more  attractive  than 
she  had  ever  been.  The  commander  at  first  tried 
to  see  in  all  these  seductions  only  a  young  woman's 
pretty  whim ;  but  from  time  to  time  the  false  magic 
of  her  charms  displayed  for  him  suddenly  paled.  At 
times  he  surprised  her  shivering  with  sudden  terror; 
at  times  she  seemed  to  listen  in  the  silence.  Then, 
if  he  said  to  her : 

"What  is  it?" 

"Hush,"  she  replied. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  duchess  left  the  old  man, 
but  soon  returned  dressed  as  her  maid  might  have 
been  dressed  for  a  journey ;  she  requested  the  arm 
of  her  guest,  and  asking  him  to  accompany  her,  they 
entered  a  hired  coach.  At  a  quarter  before  eight 
o'clock  they  were  both  before  the  door  of  Monsieur 
de  Montriveau. 

Armand  all  this  while  was  meditating  over  the 
following  letter : 

"  My  friend, 

"  I  have  passed  a  few  moments  in  your  room  without  your 
knowledge  ;  1  have  brought  back  my  letters.  Oh,  Armand  ! 
from  you  to  me  this  cannot  be  indifference,  and  hatred  would 
act  otherwise.  If  you  love  me,  cease  this  cruel  play.  You 
would  kill  me.  Later,  you  would  despair  on  learning  how 
much  you  were  loved.  If  I  have  unfortunately  understood 
you,  if  you  have  for  me  only  aversion,  aversion  means  con- 
tempt and  disgust ;  then,  all  hope  abandons  me  :  from  those 


404  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

two  feelings  men  never  return.  However  terrible  it  might  be, 
this  thought  would  bring  some  consolation  into  my  long 
sorrow.  You  will  have  no  regrets  some  day.  Regrets !  Ah, 
my  Armand !  would  that  I  were  unacquainted  with  them  ! 
If  I  have  caused  you  a  single  one— no,  I  will  not  tell  you 
what  ravages  it  would  cause  in  me.  I  should  live,  and 
should  no  longer  be  your  wife.  After  giving  myself  utterly 
to  you,  in  my  thought,  to  whom  must  I  now  give  myself? — 
to  God.  Yes,  the  eyes  which  you  loved  for  a  moment  shall 
see  no  man's  face  again  ;  and  may  the  glory  of  God  close 
them  !  1  shall  hear  no  other  human  voice  after  having  heard 
yours,  so  tender  at  first,  so  terrible  yesterday,  for  I  am  still 
in  the  morrow  of  your  vengeance  ;  may  then  the  word  of  God 
consume  me !  Between  His  anger  and  yours,  my  friend, 
there  will  be  for  me  only  tears  and  prayers.  You  ask,  per- 
haps, why  I  write  to  you.  Alas  !  may  I  not  cling  to  a  last 
ray  of  hope,  breathe  a  last  sigh  toward  the  happy  life  before 
1  leave  it  forever?  My  situation  is  a  terrible  one.  1  feel  in  me 
._4<  all  the  serenity  which  a  supreme  resolution  communicates  to 
''-'  {  the  soul,  and  yet  feel  the  last  upheavals  of  the  storm.  In  that 
/  terrible  adventure  which  first  drew  me  to  you,  Armand,  you 
/  went  from  the  desert  to  the  oasis  led  by  a  faithful  guide. 
Well,  1— I  drag  myself  from  the  oasis  to  the  desert,  and  you 
are  for  me  a  pitiless  guide.  Nevertheless,  you  alone,  my 
friend,  can  comprehend  the  melancholy  in  the  last  looks 
which  I  give  to  happiness,  and  you  are  the  only  one  to  whom 
I  can  complain  without  a  blush.  If  you  hear  my  prayers,  I 
shall  be  happy;  if  you  are  inexorable,  1  will  expiate  my 
wrong  doing.  After  all,  is  it  not  natural  that  a  woman 
should  wish  to  live  in  the  memory  of  him  she  loves,  clothed 
with  all  noble  feelings  ?  Oh,  my  only  dear  one  !  Suffer  your 
creature  to  bury  herself  in  the  belief  that  you  will  think  her 
noble.  Your  harshness  has  compelled  me  to  reflect;  and 
since  I  have  loved  you  so  well,  I  have  come  to  think  myself 
less  guilty  than  you  deem  me.  Listen  to  my  justification,  I 
owe  it  to  you ;  and  you  who  are  all  the  world  to  me,  you  owe 
me  at  least  a  moment's  justice. 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  405 

"  I  have  learned  through  my  own  sorrows  how  much  my 
coquetries  must  have  made  you  suffer ;  but  I  was  then  in 
complete  ignorance  of  love.  You,  yourself,  you  know  the 
secret  of  these  tortures,  and  yet  you  impose  them  on  me. 
During  the  first  eight  months  that  you  gave  to  me  you  did 
not  make  yourself  loved.  Why,  my  friend  ?  I  can  no  more 
tell  you  than  I  can  now  explain  to  you  why  I  love  you.  Ah  ! 
certainly  I  was  flattered  to  find  myself  the  object  of  your  pas- 
sionate discourses,  to  receive  your  burning  glances  ;  yet  you 
left  me  cold  and  without  desires.  No,  1  was  not  a  woman,  1 
conceived  nothing,  either  of  the  devotion  or  of  the  happiness 
of  our  sex.  Whose  was  the  fault?  Would  you  not  have 
despised  me  if  I  had  given  myself  up  without  impulse  ?  Per- 
haps it  is  one  of  the  sublime  qualities  of  our  sex  to  give  our- 
selves without  receiving  any  pleasure  ;  perhaps  there  is  no 
merit  in  abandoning  one's  self  to  delights  known  and  ardently 
desired.  Alas,  my  friend,  I  may  say  it  to  you,  these  thoughts 
came  to  me  when  1  was  so  coquettish  with  you  ;  but  you 
seemed  to  me  so  noble  that  1  could  not  wish  that  you  should 
win  me  through  mere  pity. — What  have  I  written  ?  Ah  !  I 
have  taken  away  from  you  all  my  letters,  I  have  thrown 
them  into  the  fire !  They  are  burning.  You  will  never  know 
what  they  revealed  of  love,  of  passion,  of  madness — .  I  will 
be  silent,  Armand,  I  stop,  I  will  say  no  more  to  you  of  my 
feelings.  If  my  prayers  have  not  communicated  from  my 
soul  to  yours,  neither  can  I,  a  woman,  owe  your  love  only  to 
your  pity.  1  would  be  loved  irresistibly  or  cast  off  ruthlessly. 
If  you  refuse  to  read  this  letter,  it  will  be  burned.  If,  after 
having  read  it,  you  are  not  within  three  hours  my  only  hus- 
band forever,  I  shall  have  no  shame  in  knowing  that  it  is  in 
your  hands ;  the  pride  of  my  despair  will  protect  my  memory 
from  all  insult,  and  my  end  shall  be  worthy  of  my  love.  You 
yourself,  meeting  me  no  more  in  this  world,  though  I  shall  still 
be  living,  you  will  not  think  without  a  shudder  of  the  woman 
who  within  three  hours  will  breathe  only  to  cover  you  with 
her  tenderness,  of  a  woman  consumed  by  love  without  hope, 
and  faithful,  not  to  shared  pleasures,  but  to  misunderstood 


\> 


406  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

feeling.    The  Duchesse  de  la  Valliere  wept  a  lost  happi- 
ness, her  vanished  power ;  while  the  Duchesse  de  Langeais 
will  be  happy  because  of  her  tears,  and  will  still  remain  a 
power  for  you.    Yes,  you  will  regret  me.    I  am  conscious  that 
y       I  was  not  made  for  this  world,  and  I  thank  you  for  having 
,,,>/        proved  it  to  me.     Adieu,  you  cannot  touch  my  axe  ;  yours 
\3'  was  that  of  the  executioner,  mine  is  that  of  God  ;  yours  kills, 

.    y "  and  mine  saves.    Your  love  was  mortal,  it  could  not  support 

(f  .  either  disdain  or  ridicule ;  mine  can  endure  everything  without 

\  y  y  weakening,  it  lives  immortally.    Ah  !  I  feel_a  dreary  joy  in 

overcoming  you,  you  who  feel  yourself  so^reatTTn  humbling 
you  with  the  calm  and  protecting  smile  of  the  feeble  angels 
who  obtain,  in  sitting  at  the  feet  of  God,  the  right  and  the 
power  to  watch  over  men  in  His  name.  You  have  had  only 
passing  desires ;  while  the  poor  nun  will  ceaselessly  lighten 
your  path  with  her  ardent  prayers  and  cover  you  forever  with 
the  wings  of  divine  love.  I  foresee  your  answer,  Armand, 
and  I  give  you  a  rendezvous— in  heaven.  Friend,  strength 
and  weakness  are  both  admitted  there  ;  both  are  sufferings. 
This  thought  soothes  the  agitations  of  my  last  trial.  Now  I 
am  so  calm  that  I  should  fear  1  no  longer  loved  thee,  were  it 

not  for  thee  that  I  quit  the  world. 

"  ANTOINETTE." 

"Dear  vidame,"  said  the  duchess  when  they 
reached  Montriveau's  house,  "do  me  the  kindness 
to  ask  at  the  door  if  he  is  at  home." 

The  commander,  obeying  after  the  manner  of  the 
men  of  the  Eighteenth  Century,  got  out  of  the  car- 
riage and  presently  returned  to  his  cousin  with  a 
yes  which  made  her  shiver.  At  this  word  she  took 
his  hand,  pressed  it,  permitted  him  to  kiss  her  on 
both  cheeks  and  begged  him  to  go  away  without 
watching  her  or  seeking  to  protect  her. 

"But  the  passers-by.?  "  he  said. 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  407 

"No  one  could  show  me  disrespect,"  she  an- 
swered. 

This  was  the  last  word  of  the  woman  of  the  world 
and  the  duchess.  The  commander  went  away. 
Madame  de  Langeais  remained  on  the  threshold  of 
this  door  wrapt  in  her  mantle,  waiting  till  the  hour 
of  eight.  The  clock  struck.  This  unhappy  woman 
gave  herself  ten  minutes  more,  a  quarter  of  an 
hour;  finally  she  saw  a  new  humiliation  in  this 
delay  and  hope  abandoned  her.  She  could  not  re- 
press one  cry  :  "Oh  my  God!"  then  she  left  the 
fatal  threshold.  It  was  the  first  word  of  the  Car- 
melite. 


* 


Montriveau  had  a  conference  that  evening  with 
several  of  his  friends,  he  urged  them  to  bring  it  to 
a  close,  but  his  clock  was  slow  and  he  only  left  his 
house  to  go  to  the  Hotel  de  Langeais  at  the  moment 
when  the  duchess,  carried  away  by  a  cold  rage,  was 
flying  on  foot  through  the  streets  of  Paris.  She 
was  weeping  when  she  reached  the  Boulevard 
d'Enfer.  There,  for  the  last  time,  she  looked  at 
Paris,  smoking,  noisy,  covered  by  the  reddish 
atmosphere  produced  by  its  lights;  then  she  entered 
a  hired  carriage  and  quitted  this  city,  never  to 
enter  it  again.  When  the  Marquis  de  Montriveau 
reached  the  Hotel  de  Langeais  he  did  not  find  his 
mistress  there,  and  thought  himself  tricked.  Then 
he  rushed  to  the  vidame,  and  was  received  at  the 
moment  when  that  worthy  man  was  putting  on  his 
dressing-gown  and  thinking  of  the  happiness  of  his 
pretty  cousin.  Montriveau  threw  at  him  that  ter- 
rible look  whose  electric  shock  affected  equally  men 
and  women. 

"Monsieur,  have  you  lent  yourself  to  a  cruel 
jest.? "  he  cried.  "I  have  just  come  from  the  Hotel 
de  Langeais,  and  the  servants  say  the  duchess  is 
out." 

"There  has  doubtless  happened,  through  your 
fault,  a  great  misfortune!  "  replied  the  vidame.  "I 
left  the  duchess  at  your  door — " 

(409) 


410  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

"At  what  hour?" 

"At  a  quarter  to  eight." 

"Good  evening,"  said  Montriveau  and  returned 
home  precipitately  to  ask  his  porter  if  he  had  seen 
in  the  evening,  a  lady  at  the  door. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  a  beautiful  lady,  who  seemed  in 
much  trouble.  She  was  crying  like  a  Madeleine, 
without  making  any  noise,  and  standing  up  straight 
like  a  picket.  At  last  she  said,  'Oh  my  God! '  and 
went  away,  so  that,  begging  your  pardon,  my  wife 
and  I,  who  were  close  by  without  her  seeing  us,  it 
made  our  hearts  ache." 

These  few  words  made  this  strong  man  turn  pale. 
He  wrote  a  line  to  Monsieur  de  Ronquerolles  and 
sent  it  to  him  immediately,  then  he  went  up  to  his 
own  apartment.  Towards  midnight  Ronquerolles 
arrived. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  good  friend?"  he  said 
on  seeing  the  general. 

Armand  gave  him  the  duchess's  letter  to  read. 

"Well?  "  asked  Ronquerolles. 

"She  was  at  my  door  at  eight  o'clock,  and  at  a 
quarter  past  eight  she  disappeared.  I  have  lost 
her  and  I  love  her!  Ah!  if  my  life  belonged  to 
me,  I  would  have  already  blown  out  my  brains! " 

"Bah!  bah!"  said  Ronquerolles,  "calm  yourself, 
duchesses  do  not  fly  away  like  milkmaids.  She 
cannot  do  more  than  three  leagues  an  hour;  to- 
morrow we  will  do  six,  all  of  us.  Ah!  plague  on 
it!"  he  added,  "Madame  de  Langeais  is  not  an 
ordinary  woman.      We  will   all    be  on  horseback 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAiS  41 1 

to-morrow  morning.  In  the  course  of  the  day  we 
will  know  through  the  police  where  she  has  gone. 
She  must  have  a  carriage,  these  angels  have  no 
wings.  Whether  she  is  on  the  road,  or  hidden  in 
Paris,  we  will  find  her.  Have  we  not  the  telegraph 
to  stop  her,  without  following  her?  You  will  yet 
be  happy.  But,  my  dear  brother,  you  have  com- 
mitted the  error  of  which  all  men  with  your 
strength  are  more  or  less  guilty.  You  judge  of 
others  by  yourself,  and  never  know  when  human 
nature  will  break  under  the  strain  which  you  are 
putting  on  it.  Why  did  not  you  consult  me  a  little 
earlier?  I  should  have  said  to  you:  'Be  punctual.' 
— Till  to-morrow  then,"  he  added,  grasping  the 
hand  of  Montriveau,  who  stood  silent.  "Sleep  now, 
if  you  can." 

But  the  greatest  resources  with  which  statesmen, 
sovereigns,  ministers,  bankers,  in  short,  all  human 
powers,  were  ever  invested  were  employed  in  vain. 
Neither  Montriveau  nor  his  friends  could  find  any 
trace  of  the  duchess.  She  was  evidently  cloistered. 
Montriveau  resolved  to  search,  or  to  have  searched, 
every  convent  in  the  world.  He  would  have  the 
duchess  even  though  it  cost  the  lives  of  a  whole 
city.  To  do  justice  to  this  extraordinary  man,  we 
must  state  that  his  passionate  ardor  rose  day  after 
day  with  the  same  fire,  and  that  it  lasted  for  five 
years.  It  was  not  until  1829  that  the  Due  de  Navar- 
reins  learned  by  chance  that  his  daughter  had  gone 
to  Spain,  as  waiting-maid  to  Lady  Julia  Hopwood, 
and  that  she  had  left  the  latter  at  Cadiz  without 


412  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

Lady  Julia's  having  any  suspicion  that  Mademoi- 
selle Caroline  was  the  illustrious  duchess  whose 
disappearance  had  excited  so  much  interest  in  the 
upper  circles  of  Parisian  society. 

The  feelings  with  which  these  two  lovers  met  at 
last  at  the  iron  grating  of  the  Carmelites  and  in  the 
presence  of  a  Mother  Superior,  can  now  be  under- 
stood in  all  their  intensity;  and  their  violence, 
reawakened  on  both  sides,  will  doubtless  explain 
the  final  scenes  of  this  history. 

The  Due  de  Langeais  having  died  in  1823,  his 
'wife  was  free.  Antoinette  de  Navarreins  was  liv- 
ing, consumed  by  love,  on  a  rock  of  the  Mediterra- 
nean; but  the  Pope  might  annul  the  vows  of  Sister 
^  Therese.  Happiness  bought  by  so  much  love  might 
yet  blossom  for  these  two  lovers.  These  thoughts 
carried  Montriveau  from  Cadiz  to  Marseilles,  from 
Marseilles  to  Paris.  Some  months  after  his  arrival 
in  France  a  merchant  brig,  armed,  left  the  port  of 
Marseilles  for  Spain.  This  vessel  carried  a  number 
of  distinguished  men,  nearly  all  French,  who,  filled 
with  a  desire  to  see  the  Orient,  wished  to  visit 
those  countries.  The  intimate  knowledge  which 
Montriveau  possessed  of  the  manners  and  customs 
of  these  lands  made  him  a  most  desirable  traveling 
companion  for  these  gentlemen,  who  entreated  him 
to  join  them,  and  he  consented.  The  Minister  of 
War  appointed  him  Lieutenant-General,  and  placed 
him  on  the  Committee  of  Artillery,  that  he  might 
be  free  to  join  this  party  of  pleasure. 

The  brig  dropped  anchor  twenty-four  hours  after 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  413 

her  departure,  to  the  north-west  of  an  island  in 
sight  of  the  coasts  of  Spain.  The  vessel  which  had 
been  selected  was  sufficiently  slender  of  keel  and 
light  of  mast  to  permit  her  to  anchor  without  danger 
within  half  a  league  of  the  reefs  which  on  this  side 
effectively  defend  the  approach  to  the  island.  If  the 
fishing  vessels  or  the  inhabitants  perceived  the  brig 
at  her  anchorage,  they  would  scarcely  have  their 
suspicions  aroused;  and,  in  addition,  her  presence 
could  be  readily  explained.  Before  arriving  in 
sight  of  the  island  Montriveau  had  run  up  the  flag 
of  the  United  States.  The  seamen  engaged  for  the 
voyage  were  all  Americans  and  could  speak  nothing 
but  English.  One  of  Montriveau's  companions 
took  them  all  ashore  in  a  long-boat  and  conducted 
them  to  the  inn  of  the  little  town,  where  he  kept 
them  at  a  degree  of  drunkenness  which  deprived 
them  of  the  free  use  of  their  tongues.  He  himself 
gave  out  that  the  brig  was  chartered  by  treasure- 
seekers,  a  class  well  enough  known  in  the  United 
States  for  their  superstitions,  and  of  whom  one  of 
the  writers  of  that  country  has  compiled  a  history. 
Thus  the  presence  of  the  vessel  outside  the  reefs 
was  sufficiently  explained.  The  owners  and  the 
passengers  were  searching,  said  the  pretended  boat- 
swain, for  the  wreck  of  a  galleon  lost  in  1778,  with 
treasures  brought  from  Mexico.  The  innkeepers 
and  the  authorities  inquired  no  further. 

Armand  and  the  devoted  friends  who  were  second- 
ing him  in  his  difficult  enterprise  concluded  at  once 
that  neither  fraud  nor  force  would  enable  them  to 


414  LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS 

assure  the  deliverance  or  the  carrying  away  of 
Sister  Therese  by  the  town  approach  to  the  convent. 
Therefore,  with  a  common  accord,  these  audacious 
men  resolved  to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns.  They 
determined  to  construct  a  path  to  the  convent  on 
the  very  side  where  all  access  seemed  impossible, 
and  to  vanquish  nature  as  General  Lamarque  had 
vanquished  it  at  the  assault  of  Capri.  In  the  pres- 
ent instance,  the  perpendicular  granite  cliffs  at  the 
edge  of  the  island  offered  less  foothold  than  the 
cliffs  of  Capri  had  offered  to  Montriveau,  who  was 
in  that  incredible  expedition,  and  the  nuns  seemed 
to  him  more  redoubtable  than  had  been  Sir  Hudson 
Lowe.  To  carry  off  the  duchess  with  noise  and 
disturbance  would  have  covered  these  men  with 
confusion.  They  might  as  well  have  laid  siege  to 
the  town  and  the  convent,  and  not  left  alive  a  sin- 
gle witness  of  their  victory,  after  the  manner  of 
pirates.  For  them,  this  enterprise  had  but  two 
aspects.  Either,  some  conflagration,  some  feat  of 
arms,  which  might  terrify  Europe  without  revealing 
the  cause  of  the  crime;  or  some  aerial,  mysterious 
carrying-off  which  would  persuade  the  nuns  that 
the  devil  had  paid  them  a  visit  This  last  plan 
had  carried  the  day  in  the  secret  council  held  at 
Paris,  before  the  departure.  Moreover,  everything 
had  been  foreseen  for  the  success  of  an  enterprise 
which  offered  to  these  men,  wearied  with  the  pleas- 
ures of  Paris,  a  genuine  amusement. 

A  species  of  pirogue,  of  an  excessive  lightness, 
constructed    at    Marseilles    after   a   Malay   model, 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS  415 

permitted  them  to  navigate  among  the  reefs  to  a  point 
beyond  which  navigation  became  quite  impossible. 
Two  cables  of  iron  wire,  stretched  parallel  for  a  dis- 
tance of  some  feet  on  an  inward  incline,  and  along 
which  traveled  baskets  also  made  of  iron  wire, 
served  for  a  bridge,  as  in  China,  on  which  to  pass 
from  one  rock  to  another.  The  reefs  were  thus 
connected  together  by  a  series  of  cables  and  . 
baskets  which  resembled  the  threads  on  which  cer-  \ 
tain  spiders  travel  and  in  which  they  envelop  the 
branches  of  a  tree, — a  work  of  instinct  which  the 
Chinese,  that  people  of  born  imitators,  were  the 
first,  historically  speaking,  to  copy.  Neither  the 
waves  nor  any  of  the  caprices  of  the  sea  could 
affect  these  frail  constructions.  The  cables  had 
elasticity  and  play  enough  to  offer  to  the  fury  of 
the  waves  that  curve — studied  by  an  engineer,  the 
late  Cachin,  the  immortal  creator  of  the  port  of 
Cherbourg — the  scientific  line  of  which  limits  the 
power  of  the  angry  waves;  a  curve  established  by 
a  law  won  from  the  secrets  of  nature  by  the  genius 
of  observation,  which  is  almost  the  whole  of  human 
genius. 

The  companions  of  Monsieur  de  Montriveau  were 
alone  upon  the  vessel.  No  eye  of  man  could  reach 
them.  The  best  glasses,  leveled  from  the  upper 
decks  of  the  passing  merchant  vessels,  could  not 
have  discovered  these  cables  lost  among  the  reefs, 
nor  the  men  hidden  among  the  rocks.  After  eleven 
days  of  preparatory  toil,  these  thirteen  human 
demons  reached  the  foot  of  the  promontory,  which 


4l6  LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS 

rose  to  a  height  of  thirty  fathoms  above  the  sea,  a 
cliff  as  difficult  for  men  to  climb  as  would  be  the 
polished  sides  of  a  porcelain  vase  for  a  mouse. 
This  table  of  granite  was  fortunately  cracked.  Its 
fissure,  whose  edges  were  two  straight  lines,  allowed 
them  to  drive  in,  at  the  distance  of  a  foot  apart, 
stout  wooden  wedges  .n  which  these  bold  workmen 
fastened  cramping-irons.  These  irons,  prepared  in 
advance,  terminated  at  one  end  with  perforated  iron 
plates  into  which  they  fixed  steps  made  of  very 
thin  fir  plank,  which  also  fitted  into  notches  made 
in  a  mast  the  exact  height  of  the  promontory,  and 
which  was  firmly  set  into  the  rock  at  the  foot  of  the 
cliff.  With  an  art  worthy  of  these  men  of  action,  one 
of  them,  a  profound  mathematician,  had  calculated 
the  angle  at  which  to  space  the  steps  gradually 
from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  the  mast,  so  as  to 
bring  at  its  exact  middle  the  point  from  which  the 
steps  of  the  upper  half  should  widen  like  a  fan  till 
they  reached  the  top  of  the  rock;  while  the  steps  of 
the  lower  half  widened  in  like  manner,  only  in  a 
reversed  direction,  to  the  bottom.  This  staircase 
of  incredible  lightness,  and  perfectly  firm,  cost 
twenty-two  days  of  work.  A  steel  and  phosphorus, 
a  night,  and  the  breakers  of  the  sea,  would  suffice 
to  obliterate  all  traces  of  it.  Thus  no  revelation 
was  possible,  and  no  search  for  the  violators  of  the 
convent  could  be  successful. 

On  the  summit  of  the  rock  was  a  platform, 
surrounded  on  every  side  by  the  perpendicular 
precipice.     The  thirteen  strangers,  examining  the 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  417 

ground  with  their  telescopes  from  the  top  of  their 
mast,  were  satisfied  that,  in  spite  of  some  difficul- 
ties, they  could  easily  reach  the  gardens  of  the  con- 
vent, the  trees  of  which  were  sufficiently  thick  to 
offer  secure  cover.  There,  they  could  doubtless 
come  to  an  ultimate  decision  as  to  the  best  means 
of  seizing  the  nun.  After  such  great  efforts  they 
were  unwilling  to  compromise  the  success  of  their 
enterprise  by  running  any  risk  of  discovery,  and 
they  were  obliged  to  wait  till  after  the  last  quarter 
of  the  moon. 

Montriveau  remained  for  two  nights  wrapped  in 
his  cloak,  lying  on  the  bare  rock.  The  chants  of  the 
evening  and  those  of  the  morning  filled  him  with 
inexpressible  delights.  He  went  to  the  foot  of  the 
wall  to  hear  the  notes  of  the  organ,  and  endeavored 
to  distinguish  one  voice  in  this  volume  of  voices. 
But,  in  spite  of  the  silence,  the  distance  was  too 
great  for  any  but  the  confused  sounds  of  the  music 
to  reach  his  ear.  They  were  mellow  harmonies,  in 
which  all  defects  of  execution  disappeared,  and  from 
which  the  pure  thought  of  art  disengaged  itself  and 
filled  the  listener's  soul,  requiring  of  him  no  efforts 
of  attention,  nor  the  weariness  of  listening.  Terri- 
ble memories  for  Armand,  whose  love  blossomed 
afresh  in  its  entirety  in  this  breeze  of  music  in 
which  he  wished  to  find  aerial  promises  of  happi- 
ness. On  the  morning  of  the  last  night  he  descended 
before  sunrise,  after  having  remained  several  hours 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  unbarred  window  of  a 
cell.  Bars  were  not  necessary  to  the  windows 
27 


4l8  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

looking  out  over  these  abysses.  He  had  seen  there 
a  light  throughout  the  night.  And  that  instinct  of 
the  heart,  which  deceives  as  often  as  it  speaks  true, 
had  cried  to  him:  "She  is  there." 

"She  is  certainly  there,  and  to-morrow  she  will 
be  mine,"  he  said  to  himself,  mingling  his  joyous 
thoughts  with  the  sounds  of  a  bell  ringing  slowly. 

Strange  capriciousness  of  heart!  He  loved  with 
more  passion  the  nui,  wasted  away  in  the  raptures 
of  love,  consumed  by  tears,  fastings,  vigils,  and 
prayer,  the  woman  of  twenty-nine  so  sorely  tried, 
than  he  had  loved  the  light  young  girl,  the  sylph, 
the  woman  of  twenty-four !  But  the  men  of  vigor- 
ous soul,  are  they  not  naturally  moved  by  an 
impulse  which  draws  them  towards  the  sublime 
expressions  which  noble  griefs,  or  the  impetuous 
flow  of  thought,  have  imprinted  upon  the  face  of  a 
woman  ?  The  beauty  of  a  sorrowful  woman,  is  it 
not  the  most  attaching  of  all  to  a  man  who  feels  in 
his  heart  an  inexhaustible  treasure  of  consolations 
and  of  tenderness  to  expend  on  a  creature,  tender 
in  weakness  and  strong  through  feeling.  The  fresh 
beauty,  florid,  smooth,  the  pretty  in  a  word,  is  a 
commonplace  charm  which  attracts  the  common 
run  of  men.  Montriveau  was  one  of  those  to  love  a 
face  in  which  love  reveals  itself  amid  the  lines  of 
grief  and  the  blight  of  melancholy.  Should  not  a 
lover  suffice  to  bring  forth,  at  the  voice  of  his  puis- 
sant desire,  a  new  being,  young,  palpitating,  break- 
ing forth  for  him  alone  from  the  worn  shell  so 
beautiful  to  his  eyes  yet  defaced  for  all  others.? 


LA  DUCHESSE   DE   LANGEAIS  419 

Does  he  not  possess  two  women, — one  who  shows 
herself  to  the  world  pale,  discolored,  sad;  and  that 
other  one  of  his  heart,  whom  no  one  sees,  gj}_angeL. 
who  comprehends  life  through  her  feelings  and  who 
only  appears  in  all  her  glory  for  the  solemnities  of 
love?  Before  quitting  his  post,  the  general  heard 
faint  harmonies  which  issued  from  that  cell,  soft 
voices  full  of  tenderness.  When  he  descended  to 
his  friends  stationed  at  the  bottom  of  the  rock  he 
told  them  in  a  few  words,  imprinted  with  that  pas- 
sion, communicative  yet  discreet,  whose  imposing 
expression  men  always  respect,  that  never  in  his 
life  had  he  experienced  such  captivating  felicity. 

In  the  evening  of  the  next  day,  eleven  devoted 
comrades  mounted  in  the  darkness  up  the  precipice, 
having  each  one  a  poniard,  a  provision  of  chocolate, 
and  all  the  instruments  necessary  for  the  trade  of  a 
burglar.  When  they  reached  the  enclosing  wall  of 
the  convent,  they  scaled  it  by  means  of  ladders 
which  they  had  made,  and  found  themselves  in  the 
cemetery  of  the  convent.  Montriveau  recognized 
both  the  long  vaulted  gallery  through  which  he  had 
recently  passed  on  his  way  to  the  parlor  and  the 
windows  of  that  apartment.  His  plan  was  at  once 
formed  and  adopted.  To  enter  by  the  window  of 
that  parlor  which  opened  into  the  part  occupied  by 
the  nuns,  to  penetrate  into  the  corridors,  to  see  if 
the  names  were  inscribed  on  each  cell,  to  go  to  that 
of  Sister  Therese,  to  surprise  her  there  and  gag  her 
during  her  sleep,  bind  her  and  carry  her  away,  all 
this  part  of  the  work  would  be  easy  for  men  who, 


420  LA   DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

to  the  audacity,  to  the  expertness  of  galley-slaves, 
joined  the  special  knowledge  of  men  of  the  world, 
and  to  whom  it  was  indifferent  whether  the  stroke 
of  a  poniard  should  be  necessary  to  purchase 
silence. 

The  bars  of  the  window  were  sawed  in  two  in 
two  hours.  Three  men  remained  as  sentries 
without,  two  others  watched  in  the  parlor.  The 
rest,  bare-footed,  stationed  themselves  at  certain  dis- 
tances along  the  cloister  which  Montriveau  entered, 
hidden  behind  a  young  man,  the  most  dexterous  of 
them  all,  Henri  de  Marsay,  who,  as  a  matter  of  pre- 
caution, was  dressed  in  the  habit  of  the  Carmelites, 
precisely  like  that  worn  in  the  convent.  The  clock 
struck  three  as  Montriveau  and  the  false  nun  reached 
the  dormitories.  They  soon  made  out  the  position 
of  the  cells.  Then,  hearing  no  noise,  they  began 
to  read  by  the  light  of  a  dark  lantern  the  names  for- 
tunately inscribed  on  each  door  together  with  those 
mystical  devices,  portraits  of  saints,  male  or  female, 
which  each  nun  wrote  like  an  epigraph  over  the 
new  dispensation  of  her  life,  and  in  which  she 
revealed  the  last  thought  of  her  past.  When  they 
reached  the  cell  of  Sister  Therese,  Montriveau  read 
this  inscription:  Sub  invocatione  sanctce  mairis 
TherescB,  The  motto  was:  Adoremus  in  (Sternum. 
Suddenly  his  companion  laid  a  hand  upon  his  shoul- 
der and  showed  him  a  bright  light  shining  on  the 
flagstones  of  the  corridor  through  the  chink  of  the 
door.  At  this  moment  Monsieur  de  Ronquerolles 
joined  them. 


LA  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS  42 1 

**A11  the  nuns  are  in  the  church,  and  are  com- 
mencing the  Office  of  the  Dead,"  he  said. 

"I  remain  here,"  replied  Montriveau;  "fall  back, 
all  of  you,  to  the  parlor  and  close  the  door  of  this 
corridor." 

He  entered  quickly,  preceded  by  the  pretended 
nun  who  put  down  his  veil.  They  saw  then,  in  the 
antechamber  of  the  cell,  the  dead  body  of  the 
duchess  lying  on  the  floor  upon  a  plank  of  her  bed 
and  lighted  by  two  wax  tapers.  Neither  Montriveau 
nor  de  Marsay  said  a  word,  nor  uttered  a  cry;  but 
they  looked  at  each  other.  Then  the  general  made 
a  sign  which  meant:  "We  will  carry  her  away!" 

"Save  yourselves,"  cried  Ronquerolles,  "the  pro- 
cession of  nuns  is  returning,  you  will  be  seen." 

With  that  magical  rapidity  which  a  passionate 
desire  infuses  into  movements,  the  body  of  the 
duchess  was  carried  into  the  parlor,  passed  through 
the  window  and  conveyed  to  the  foot  of  the  wall 
just  as  the  abbess,  followed  by  the  nuns,  reached 
the  cell  to  take  the  body  of  Sister  Therese.  The 
nun,  whose  duty  it  was  to  watch  with  the  dead, 
had  had  the  imprudence  to  leave  her  charge,  to 
search  the  inner  cell  for  the  secrets  of  its  occupant, 
and  was  so  intent  upon  this  purpose  that  she  heard 
nothing,  and  was  thunderstruck  when  slie  came  out 
and  found  the  body  gone.  Before  these  stupefied 
women  thought  of  making  any  search,  the  duchess 
had  been  lowered  by  ropes  to  the  foot  of  the  rocks 
and  the  companions  of  Montriveau  had  destroyed 
their  work.     At  nine  o'clock   in  the  morning  no 


422  LA  DUCHESSE  DE   LANGEAIS 

trace  remained  of  the  stairway,  nor  of  the  cable 
bridges;  the  body  of  Sister  Therese  was  on  board; 
the  brig  came  into  port  to  embark  her  men,  and 
disappeared  in  the  course  of  the  day.  Montriveau 
remained  alone  in  his  cabin  with  Antoinette  de 
Navarreins,  whose  countenance,  during  several 
hours,  shone  mercifully  for  him,  resplendent  with 
the  sublime  beauty  which  the  peculiar  calm  of 
death  lends  to  our  mortal  remains. 

"Come,"  said  Ronquerolles  to  Montriveau  when 
the  latter  reappeared  on  deck,  "she  was  a  woman, 
now  she  is  nothing.  Let  us  fasten  a  cannon  ball  to 
each  of  her  feet,  throw  her  into  the  sea,  and  think 
no  more  of  her  than  we  do  a  book  read  in  our  child- 
hood." 

"Yes,"  said  Montriveau,  "for  it  is  no  longer  any- 
thing but  a  poem." 

"Now  you  are  wise.  Henceforth,  have  passions; 
but,  as  for  love,  it  is  well  to  know  where  to  place 
it,  and  it  is  only  the  last  love  of  a  woman  that 
should  satisfy  the  first  love  of  a  man." 

Geneva,  Pre-L6veque,  January  26,  1834. 


LIST  OF    ETCHINGS 


VOLUME  VI 

PAGE 

M.  AND  Mme.  JULES  AND  IDA Fronts. 

THE  WIDOW  GRUGET  AND  M.  DESMARETS 152 

THE  INTERVIEW  IN  THE  CONVENT 197 

M.  DE  MONTRIVEAU  AND  HIS  GUIDE 264 

LA  DUCHESSE  AND  M.  DE  MONTRIVEAU 272 


6  N.  R.,  H.  T.  423 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
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